They didn't find anything wrong, and realistically I wasn't expecting them to. I can't die until I've owned my own boat and sailed around the world, just me and my dog and maybe Korean Guy if his music career doesn't take off.

I was in a long line at the post office yesterday and there was an enormously tall, muscly young black guy in front of me, dressed in what you might call "gangster" apparel. I quailed under his shadow but then he turned around, smiled with brilliant white teeth and urged me to go ahead of him. I blushed, not only cos my survival instincts are stuck in the caveman days but cos he was pretty cute once I saw his face.

It bothers me cos I do this all the time. I don't know if it's from growing up in Greenbelt or societal influences or just Rabbit tendencies, but I've never once been in a dangerous situation with someone who looks like that. And by "that" I'm not even sure if it's racially inclusive cos white guys in baggy jeans and tanktops scare me too.

I'm prolly overthinking it. Maybe it's young men my age in general. It's so hard to trust peen.

More or less, anyways.

Cough cough. My lungs are on fire.

The other doctor, who is a lady and sadly does not resemble Jared Padalecki, gave me cough syrup with codeine and an inhaler and a Z-pack, but all my magic cough syrup is gone and I suspect Melissa drank the rest because I don't remember finishing it. It might have been me, though. I only remember what happened between doses.

I've also been having nightly panic attacks, so last night I decided to put my nervous energy to good use and tried out my brand-spankin' new PANCAKE PUFF PAN, or whatever the hell it's called, because to commemorate Billy Mays I've been buying a lot of the shit he hawked on t.v., just as I've been commemorating Michael Jackson by luring little boys to my house and roundly molesting them.

But the puffs turned out fantastic, and I even made omelet puffs as well as the pancakes so Melissa and I feasted at 3 in the morning on the puffy fruit of my labor.

Here is a picture:



I know it's hard to tell from my camera phone, but they were delicious. And the pan was only 10 bucks at Target. So really, I couldn't not buy it.

So my doctor looks kind of like a 40-year old Jared Padalecki, and today I went in to see him for my cough. After listening to my lungs, he noted that although I didn't have a fever, my cheeks were "feverishly pink." I sputtered for a moment and pointed out that he still had the stethoscope pressed to my chest.

An old foreign man came into the store, I couldn't tell where he was from but his accent sounded vaguely Greek, and as I was ringing him up he noticed my tattoo, partially revealed by my sleeve.

I watched his face fold up in disgust, and he shook his finger at it.

"Why would you do such a thing? Don't you know your body is sacred?"

I colored, uncomfortable, and didn't respond. He had finished paying so I was hoping he'd leave, but apparently he wasn't finished -

"A woman should be classy, you know? Tattoo on a woman is vulgar."

"It doesn't matter if I'm a woman or a man," I replied, getting angry, "and it's my body."

He clicked his tongue. "When you're old, you'll regret it. Do you regret it now?"

"No."

"Well, you're such a beautiful girl and now it's ruined. You'll see."

Nonplussed, I fell silent as he walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned back and pointed at me.

"You'll regret it, you'll see."



Well, Koki has a rebuttal:

There's a doctor on t.v., right this very instant, discussing an amazing new topical cream to treat premature ejaculation.

...Really? People are dying of AIDS and cancer and there's an entire body of medical research devoted to premature ejaculation?

The commercial is painfully cheesy, and after the doctor speaks the woman turns to her husband and says "Who's the man?" To which the husband replies with a bashful grin, "I'm the man."

Indeed.

Regular people with monstrous imaginations are not, technically, monsters. But the potential is there. Mighty potential.

Reading things that make me light-headed. I feel sick. Makes me not want to write ever again.

( rabbit over flowers )


All past entries are now private.

Neem took us to downtown to see the botanical gardens today, and what's under the cut is about half of the pictures I took plus a short video. We went to the Air and Space museum, too, but I was feeling sick then so I didn't take many photos. My weight on the moon is much more encouraging.

Christina met us at Temari, and then we played badminton until it got too dark. I need to sleep, but I can't. I have work tomorrow morning.

Outside in the rose garden, you can see the street past the gates in front of you, and behind is the rest of the plants. The path winds around patches of different roses, and I found a spot to stand where it was just me, and the quiet threads of conversation from Neem and My-chan somewhere close by. No one else was in the garden with us, but a little ways off there was a terrace where five or six businessmen were sitting, and every so often I'd hear them laugh.

No one was upset, and no one was hurt. There were beautiful things all around me and the air was cool and scented with flowers. I wasn't hungry or tired. No one was disappointed in me, or frustrated with something I'd done or said. Nothing was expected.

For just a few minutes I found Heaven, and I didn't even have to die.

Past the gates and back on the street, Neem bought me an ice tea that I later threw up in the bathroom of the Air and Space museum.

Back to mortality, but I did get a taste.