My friend's husband called me tonight to let me know that she is in the hospital. He said, "High white blood cell count" and my heart fell. Luckily (or what passes for luck in situations like these), it's appendicitis and not the c-word. She'll still be stuck in the hospital overnight, though. He asked that I call her tomorrow and just "talk about dumb shit." Ha. Above and beyond, man.

Does it make me a shitty friend for not even thinking of flying up there to see her during my Summer of Why The Hell Not until now? Yeah, I thought so. I mean, shit, man. I could actually afford to take a train there. And there have been songs PLURAL written about trains to Georgia. I have no excuse. Christ.

Anyway, work has been masquerading as a horrible blood-sucking vampire lately. I have come home exhausted every day this week and my neck and shoulders have little bruises from me digging my fingers into the muscle too hard. This woman got all uppity with me because I told her that a movie was due today, May 28th.

No, the 28th is tomorrow, she said.

Good-natured laugh from me and nope, that's today.

Evil aren't-you-a-dumbass look from her and no, you're wrong. So, she continued, the movie is due tomorrow the 28th, right?

And by that point I could only sigh.

Tiny Dancer was in tonight, too. He physically and verbally assaulted the copy machine because it was going to too slow. No joke. Remind me to never have sex with him, OK?

I came home and of course I couldn't just go to bed. Oh, no. I had to sort through my massive stacks of shit and read everything I found.

Papers and stories. There was a grocery bag filled with notes from friends in middle school. I think I've started more letters to Jerkface than I've actually sent. Then there were all the school publications and my journals.

Oh, fuck, the journals.

I eagerly await the day when enough time has passed that I can no longer read my own handwriting from high school.

And don't you worry, pretty ones, I will more than likely post some of the particularly angsty (read really fucking funny if you're not me) entries. I'll even make little footnotes explaining each person I mention.

So I read these journals and Jesus fucking Christ, was I ever annoying in regards to Jerkface. Like, those of you who knew me 3/4/5 years ago? Thank you for not killing me. I truly, truly mean that. And the boy. I am honestly surprised that he still speaks to me after all the shit I said to him. Wow. I hope all those confessional letters I sent him once a season do not read like that goddamn journal.

But, hey, the past is the past and I can only hope that I am nothing like that anymore.

Oh, hey. Here's something I just found out.

I have this list of songs that remind me of K's death. Some of the songs for obvious reasons (People Who Died, Richard Hung Himself) while others are for no apparent reason. But each one has its reason and each one will always bring me back to that November.

One of the songs is James Taylor's Fire and Rain. I had probably heard it twice in my whole life and the week he died, I heard it several times (three times on the radio). I doubt I need to point out that it is a sad song.

I always thought that it was about his girlfriend who died in a plane crash (an assumption strengthened by its inclusion on the Clear Channel list of songs not to played in the months after 9/11). Then, last night, I was looking up all sorts of shit on snopes.com and I found this.

How odd is it that he wrote the first verse about his friend killing herself?

I dunno. I like to look for the coincidences until I find them. It makes things sensible.

Anyway, it's time for bed. Vicky, May and I will be getting all dolled up tomorrow night and going out. Class can must be acquired with sleep.

And hooch. Lots and lots of hooch.

Oh, man, there's a joke in there somewhere and I'll let you find it.

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