I did the class on blogs and learned I should entitle these entries such innocuous and flowery shit, but I still have a tendency towards poetry, though a lot of it has been washed out of my mind with those big surgeries I had in 2006. I forgot to mention one of my exes from NYC wrote me a few months ago as he had found one of my poems in storage, one of my cocktail napkin poems, that is--and decided to come find me on Facebook. It was a pure nostalgic check-in, I assume, because we did not become friends there, he just messaged me through the messenger. No idea how, though, as I keep that shit locked down. This was August, though, and I left the shit show that is Facebook from the end of October to the middle of December. I am not sure if I should have ever come back, to be quite honest. I still happen to know more about what is going on with the world given my copious news consumption--people still share shit as new I read about weeks ago. The fury and hyperbole driving things is still very relevant, as ...
I meant to write something fabulous for Christmas. Ours was the general uneventful it typically is--hanging out in here, avoiding the world of the infected. There are so many now.
Don's only friend died the day I wrote that last entry. He was a colleague, and someone he really enjoyed working with--though we knew he had it, dying of it was something I was worried about for him, but I think it shocked the shit out of Don. As time has gone on, Don appears to be one of only two people in his department who is not infected. You think I am kidding? No, no I am not. The other guy lost his brother so is maybe not as carefree as some of his colleagues have been. I have clearly been on Don's ass about this since I am not keen to die and all, and I think some of my insistence may have saved him some grief, and me, too. He got his test after the mess in his office and it was negative.
He has been working for a contractor and though the government appeared to be taking steps to protect them for a while, for some ...
I am terrible with updates. Not that I have all this amazing shit going on. That's a lot of it. I tell my birth father I try not to bug him so much with shit news because who wants to hear it. It's as fun as having no news, so I am less revealing in this place than I would normally want to be. But there isn't a hell of a lot to reveal. We're in a pandemic, after all.
I did hear back about my echo. Somehow the test was better than the last one I had in May. I am not shocked, not really. I have this pretty sweet ability to use this mind of mine to make shit happen. Not anything super amazing, mind you, but survival. Survival I do like nobody else. It's a magic I have been able to employ since my strokes haven't taken away my ability to imagine a better life or outcome for myself.
One thing I have learned in this life of mine. I hate that "everything happens for a reason" saying. I really do. Things happen because something is happening all of the time. Especially in ...
