2002-10-21 - 9:35 p.m.

No - but seriously . . . seriously. Seriously Clyde. "I'm in Hell." is a statement I've probably used somewhere around 17,000 times in my lifetime. Like any morning at G. Willikers. During a Saturday night rush at Pattyrack's (with sweat burning out my retinas). Trapped in an elevator with Courtney and Helen Hunt. I was just kidding those other times. This time I mean it. Seriously - Hell. There's double hockey sticks raining down on me from every direction. . .

My head hurts. I am sneezing like a herniated porcupine. My tooth is killing me. My ears hurt. My stomach is picketing me for not feeding him and now he's gotten my other organs to join the local #416 for the Hunger Strike Strike. They're mad at the duodenum for being a scab. Scab. Scab. Scarab. Madame O. Karate - 1. I am SO fucking hungry. I am so so so so so hungry. My surgery is tomorrow morning at 10:30 and I probably won't eat after that, and am realistically telling myself that food won't become a part of my life again until Wednesday. Wednesday. I'm so sad. Sad for food. Sad for my stomach. Sad for everyone. But especially me. Cause I'm hungry. And I can't eat. Until Wednesday. Wednesday.

I need to focus. (Focus on eating. Shhhhh!) So I guess I forgot to mention exactly why I'm in hell in the above paragraph. Yes, MUCH of it is due to the pain in my head. But, perhaps I should mention that I'm typing this on my father's computer. At my father's. In Meredith. It's on a Tatung computer. I've never even seen a Tatung computer before. Except when I'm at my dad's. In Meredith. Gil's Discount Coleco's would work better than this shit box full of shit. The dial-up connection takes 20 minutes to connect. The keys sound like machine gun fire. And oh my god the television situation. During EVERY SINGLE show, after every single motherfucking punchline I hear, "Raymond wasn't expecting Deborah to say THAT!" or "Did you just hear what Chandler said?! He said he 'SO isn't going back to that store again!' Chandler is so funny. I love Chandler. Zach do you love Chandler?" Zach, do you love Chandler? Zach, do you love Chandler? I am crying all over my shoes. Which I want to eat. Since I'm so hungry. Did I mention that I could eat a wooley mammoth?

And then they (they being "not my dad") asked me how many hours a week I work. And I told them. And then they asked how many classes I take. And I told them. And then they say, "That's not really too bad." And I shoot back "What are you high?! I said OVER 35 HOURS a week PLUS school." And everyone just stares at me. And then my dad says, "Um, he's . . . he's just very hungry . . . very hungry." And then the Girl says, "Yeah, I know how hard it is to do work and school." To which I loudly raise my eyebrows underneath my the hood of my snug hooded sweatshirt. Girl says, "My mom gives me a hard time about not working more, but I know you sympathize since you're a student too." To which I say, " . . . " And then Lady says, "She only works every other week." To which I violently scream, " . . . " And then Lady adds, "She works one day a week, every other week." And Girl says, "Can you believe she nags me about this?" And then I slaughter them all. I wish. And then I try to bite my tongue so hard that it forks, but it doesn't work and instead I say "Actually, I agree with her. There's no reason you should be working that little." To which I think my dad starts to urinate silently on the couch since he knows that these poor fools have no idea what would happen dare I go nuclear. And Girl says, "Yeah, but what I didn't mention was that I'm in a long-distance relationship and I need to go see my boyfriend every other weekend and hostess one night on the weekend I'm here." Hostess. Hostess. As in cup cakes. As in pastry filling. As in the easiest fucking job ever. As in all the souls of cooks around the world entered my body and prepared for me to unleash my/their holy furor on her but then my Dad leapt up and said, "Girl, don't you have laundry to do?" at the same time as he jiggled his keys in front of my face which put me in a hypnotic trance for about 30 seconds which was more than enough for the coast to become, as they say, clear. Cause this is the sort of pre-surgery environment I need to be in. . .

I keep meaning to mention this. Priya came into the store the other day and I wanted to call Coty so bad, but I didn't have his San Diego # in my cell phone yet so I couldn't, and I don't have Fred's work # and I don't talk to Marshall so it was a tragedy that I had to soak up the Priya sighting all on my own. I don't know how she arrived at the mall, but my guess is she jetted to the FRM in a sporty little red car that winked all the way from New Delhi to Newington. I can hear Coty grumbling and mumbling all the way from the West Coast.

I went to get a Dasani out of the Coke machine before French this morning and instead of water it gave me. . . Nestea. Nes-fucking-tea. Now, granted, it's not like it was Dr. Pepper or Moxie ["I wish!" - TPC], but I'm not exactly jonesing for a Nestea at 9:30 in the morning. But here's the weird thing about Nestea. I can count the instances on one finger where I have been seen socially enjoying me some Nestea. It was one of the times at the Curtis' when you could always count on there being 16 boxes of Nestea 12-packs in their garage and that they'd line your pockets full of Nestea before you left - with an obligatory "See you in the funnies" of course. I don't like Nestea. But I don't dislike it either. I am entirely neutral when it comes to Nestea. But it was ok-tasting considering. French sucked though.

I know that *I* wouldn't leave my Abby at the El stop. Stupid stupid Carter. This is where I was going to type all about last Thursday night and Kate and I being distracted by the evil Adam and IAMSam. And how IAM brought me ice cream and how I tragically lost my Pass The Pigs crown and how, in our distracted states, Kate and I screwed up the cash out that would result in major cash headaches on Friday night and Saturday morning at work, but the only thing more boring than trying to find your cash out errors is in reading about some else trying to find their cash out error. So yeah. Well, it wasn't a total wash. I got Kate to bring her singing abilities out of retirement and treat me to an expert rendition of "I am a Baby Smasher." (with vital assistance from her rainbow colored 75lb. Octopus)

The Cold War has officially thawed out and Brooke came down on Sunday. Jimbo, Ben, and her and I went out to lunch at the Brewery. The waitress sucked ass and then the food was mediocre. (No Monique, you don't get royalties when someone uses that word) We had fun as not only had Brooke and I not gone out to do something in many moons, but it had been a very very very long time since all four of us had. Besides, anytime that Hector's and Pete & Meredith and Veal aren't involved, I am plenty happy. Even if Beinarz, my dad in his bathrobe, and Bittersweet flower shop seem to crop up each time. I went to Macro Polo to find something for Brad (after already quickly finding something for the much easier to buy for K-Slopp). I found a stupid thing for him, 2 cool things for me, and one cool thing for Tim Curtis. Which would have been great had Tim and I been who I was buying for. Brad turned 21 on the 16th and K-Slopp turned 18 on the 17th. Again. They are crappy birthday boys. As someone who majors in birthdays, I should know. . . (Although Brad *did* call dibs on going to Margarita's and Conner *did* call dibs on the acorn squash)

Did I mention that Kate decided it would be HI-larious to tattoo me with the check stamp at work on Saturday? Well, I can't fault her thinking because it was. It was hilarious. I laughed and laughed and laughed. And despite numerous showers since, the stamp is still on my right arm. And now I'm at my dad's. And if there is one thing that inexplicably rankles Les Foote more than any other thing it's when I get ink on my arm. ESPECIALLY if someone else put it there. ESPECIALLY if that someone else is a girl. I wish I was just making this up in a way to color my dad in every shade of crackpot there is, but make it up I do not. I do not. You are on Les Foote's shit list Kate - so you better check yo'self before . . . well you know. Just ask Rachel and Andrea - they hard to learn the hard way.

Also, Lori, short for Lorien, which itself is short for Lothlorien, snuck under the cover of Thursday for a hello and one Panera French Onion Soup Bread Bowl later, she was whisked away by the autumn wind as fast as she was whiskd here. At least I had time to give her the accursed package I'd been meaning to send her since pre-Road Trip. It was fun. We had a nice time. Which is what makes it a shame that events such as those seem to only happen once a year or less.

It shocks me how much The Missouri Compromise, 54' 40' or Fight!, and Tippicanoe and Tyler Too! come up in current society. I mean, not every day, but far more than one would expect. I'm just saying. . .

So here we are. Kate has informed me I'm a baby about dreading the surgery. Brooke tells me not to worry because in 5th Grade she had 17 teeth removed and got 5 gold caps and it was fine. Andrea tells me not to worry since she found a sick pheasant once and nursed it back to health (only to have it die 2 days later in her bathtub). Monique tells me I'm going to die and the sky is falling and that I should make sure I have all of my affairs in order. But if there's one thing they all sympathize with, it's that I won't be able to shove any butterball turkeys down my gullet any time in the near future. Mmmmm . . . Butterball Turkey. Theodore was a butterball. I'd even eat cous-cous right now if I could. Ok, no I wouldn't. I'm going to go longer not eating than I did during the Bad Bologna Incident of 2000. Maybe I haven't made it clear to anyone that I'm having surgery tomorrow. They are going to butcher me up and make me look like Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Leatherface I tell you. (He didn't look so good) Kate tells me, "You'll be fine. It is so easy and trouble free. As long as you don't start choking on your own blood like I did and they have to suction all of the blood out of your throat. That would suck. But you'll be fine. Don't think about that."

It's been real,

The Master of Syntax

ps - think of me Tuesday morning at 10:30 - God knows I won't be able to think for myself as I'll have more drugs being pumped into my blood than Sid Vicious at the Orthodonist . . .

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