"I wish I could trade my heart for another liver, so I could drink more and care less."
#funny but not funny
It hasn’t been above freezing in Portland in days. Feels appropriate, since all I want to do is curl up under blankets and stare at my Christmas tree until the magic of the holiday season gives me strength. Somehow, this does not seem to be working.
Yesterday I finished a second draft of a story and passed it along to Kenny to read. The taxidermist in this story is too competent, too in control, he told me. There is no strong conflict.
When all I want to do is to avoid, be quiet, be safe, it doesn’t make for very vibrant fiction. I hit this wall all the time. When I do try to breach it, in my own real life, I come apart and so I retreat. Which means more suffering for my stories.
There is no such thing as safe.
"A man who assisted in autopsies in a big urban hospital, starting in the mid-1950s, describes the many deaths from botched abortions that he saw. “The deaths stopped overnight in 1973.” He never saw another in the 18 years before he retired. “That,” he says, “ought to tell people something about keeping abortion legal."
#what it means to care about life
I dreamed someone had broken into my apartment and was rummaging around in the living room. In the dream, I managed to get out of bed and creep to the living room, tried to turn on a light and nothing happened. Tried the kitchen light with the same result. Threw random objects into both rooms and then ran back to bed. Suddenly, I felt a hand grasping my shoulder, but I couldn’t turn around to see who it was and the hand gripped me harder. I tried to scream, and managed to wake myself up with the weird moaning noise I was actually making.
Only to discover that I was covered in weird patches of hives, probably because of the multivitamins I have been attempting to virtuously take for the past couple of days.
I would like to scratch out this day and start over again, please.