Cracking myself up.

I’ve been organizing around the house and found my old journals.  Here’s a piece of an entry from 1/97, after I had left an exchange term at Stanford.  I was staying at my grandma Ruth’s house in Oklahoma for an off term before going back to college in the spring.

Still here.  Doing nothing.  House still cold.  Everyone is the same.  Don’t feel like writing but I don’t know what else to do.  Friday evening, I really wish I had something to do.  Well, really, it’s Saturday morning, not that that makes a difference.  Fixed a jigsaw puzzle.  Watched a silly movie starring that annoying Melanie Griffith.  Listening to the end of a Soundgarden song.  Blow Up the Outside World.  Sounds like a good idea to me.  Then I wouldn’t be missing anything while I’m in seclusion.  I bet everyone in the Witness Protection Program is here in Oklahoma.  No one would ever think to look here.  Or want to.  …  I feel the social neurons in my brain withering away.  My eyes hurt.  Why are romance novels so demeaning to women?  I’ve read two since I’ve been here and they both suck major ass.  Independent women thinking they have control of their lives only to find themselves drooling over men named “Chance” or “Jean-Pierre”.  Throw in a career and create an instant conflict.  Need a death or a birth to further complicate matters.  Then resolve the situation by introducing new love interest and having sex in a dream scenario.  Live wealthily ever after.  Sick.  And people lap this syrup up.  Oh yeah, static is on the radio, my favorite song.  Especially when it’s drowning out a whiny Julianna Hatfield. … Gonna start writing my dreams down now as soon as I wake (if I can see clear enough).  We’ll see what we can find in this crazy sleep of mine. …

[next day] So I didn’t write my dream down right away.  I forgot how tired I am 1st thing in the morning.  Pretty strange one too.  I remember some nurse giving me marijuana to make pain go away.  I remember saying, “Yeah, I’ve been standing up all day,” as the cause of my pain.  There was a large group of us in a circle and the nurse was pulling out bong after bong and packing them and we all “cured” ourselves.  Must be that CA law in my mind.  Then I remember J and P standing at this long folding-table with piles of gloves, the knitted-mitten kind, on its surface.  J wanted to steal this white w/blue trim pair but was afraid of getting caught so P did it, she pocketed them, and then we all walked away.  Next I was driving grandma’s car across a long bridge and ended up at what seemed like her house.  L and some tall model-type girl were there and they were being snotty towards me.  I pretended like they weren’t worth my time of day and drove away in a hurry towards town.  The last thing I remember is riding into the bridge. … Other than the dream nothing was extraordinary about the day.  I got frustrated by being stuck here another weekend.  Email.  I miss it.  My information superhighway is a dirt road.

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