An Hilarious Mash Up of Nonsensical and Highly Unreliable Affectation

For lunch I ate a tasty falafel plate. One of the tastiest ever. I ruined it by eating too much and now my belly is feeling hurt and betrayed. It wants do-overs, but it’d settle for left-overs.

It cracks me right up that I can walk down the street and pick a restaurant. And that I can sit outside of the restaurant at a little plastic table in the cold, next to a Tea & Crumpets shop, across from an x-rated adult store. (Bring on the Google hits!) It’s a funny world when you can satisfy your tea fetish and your foot fetish on the same corner.

In not so wonderful news, my medical benefits suck. Every month I buy two prescriptions and for many moons it’s been $15 for both. With my new benefits, it’s $55 for both. One of the two prescriptions is generic, and with insurance I now get a three dollar discount. What’s that about? It’s not like I enjoy taking pills everyday. It’s not like I can stop taking the stupid generic thyroid medication. Well, I guess I *could* stop but then my pulse rate would double and apparently that’s not a good thing. I can’t wait to find out how much it’ll cost to actually see an endocrinologist. To be on the safe side, I better start saving now. Maybe I’ll open a CD just for co-payments.

Thanks to the convenience of Amazon wishlists and itchy trigger fingers, I’m nearly done with my holiday shopping. There’s really only one problem spot left. My Marine brother-in-law is in Iraq and I’ve still got to gather together and send him a care package. He likes chili. I’ve done everything I can think of to avoid the post office, but it looks like I’m stuck. And really, I know, it’s the least I can do. I wonder if Amazon will ship him chili if I put it on a wishlist. A girl can dream.

Speaking of dreams, all I want to do is sit down and finish “Dream Park.” The book is in my purse, within reach, tormenting me. I think this is why I don’t read as much as I used to. Whenever I’m involved in a story, everything else is a shadow, an echo of that other reality. And I want to get back to it in the worst way. Reality is not an adequate substitute.

Ever stare at your hands and wonder how they got so big? I remember as a child, sitting half-naked in the living room, examining my arms. I remember wondering how it would feel when they finally stretched out and grew long. Would it hurt? Back then I could entertain myself for hours by flexing my fingers and wiggling them around, watching the tendon flicker in my wrist, trying to pinpoint the trigger that made them move. How did I tell my hands to do that? How did they know? If they just move like magic, could it ever stop working? If it’s just thought that makes them move, how would you fix them if they’re broken?

Hair cut scheduled for Saturday. If I can’t wear priceless butterfly gowns, I can at least slay my static strands of fly-away hair and irascible split ends.