It never takes longer than a few minutes, whenever they get together, for everyone to revert to the state of nature, like a party marooned by a shipwreck. That's what a family is. Also the storm at sea, the ship, and the unknown shore. And the hats and the whiskey stills that you make out of bamboo and coconuts. And the fire that you light to keep away the beasts.

The Yiddish Policemen's Union, Chabon

Today, at age 2 to the 5th (!!!), I have been contemplating, while at work updating a three-year-old list of doctors [considering when available their pictures, many of which make them look young and hopeful, sweet even - rather startling for doctors - but a few of which make them look like psychopathic rum-runners, usually when they're in the pediatric department, and some of whom are likely couples (based on similarity of name and age, not likely mother and son -- possibly brother and sister, although when one considers that particular familial proximity, one must realistically acknowledge how it's like putting skulpy - pure white plasticine baked in the form of puppies and violets - alongside ceramic mugs or elaborate bongs -- which makes one wonder what happens when these doctor couples start to hate each other after years of living and working alongside each other, unless of course they are mother and son or father and daughter, whereupon different horrific homicidal likelihoods arise), and others who simply look so much younger than myself that I wonder how they managed to get so wise, so beautiful, so useful so quickly and intelligently. Were they gifted unusually? Were they quick to win their teacher's affections? Or were they stubborn and ungrateful, but clever, very very clever? Are they writing prescriptions for themselves that involve high dosages of codeine? Are they brilliant like House, or do they fancy themselves so? Do they hate House because he's a brilliant jerk, much like the third-to-last girl I 'dated', the one who made me feel like my approval of House's sheer bitchiness was a sign of my wretched decline into Hell? Perhaps they're the kind of doctors who never listen, or maybe they listen too long and overrun their schedule. Perhaps they are inclined to doubt, to always think their patients liars, pure hypochondriacs (and to what degree are they wrong? Can they afford to be wrong? Are they like the doctor who misdiagnosed me with hypochondriac flu when I actually had a form of salmonella that caused hallucinations, massive pukings, and a 25% weight loss?) Or are they like the doctors who give tictacs as Vitamins, tea for thought?], how I've managed to make my life what it is.

As of thirty-two, I feel I should soon be done with the anxiety attacks that have been waking me daily at night, causing hours of panic panic at my failure and ineptitude and lack of deep fiber tissue. I shouldn't be thinking in the wee hours of stories unwritten, family not made, love lost or unmade, bills looming, lack of insurance property accomplishment, lack of everything but really good friends, family and Herald. I shouldn't be reading Herald's eyes as opening with sleepy criticism.

Herald just wants a bone. Probably he really needs to pee. Mostly, he's been waiting all night for my morning alarm to go off so he can climb fuzzily into my bed and cuddle until my second alarm goes off and I get up and sneak around him, softly leaving him my pillow for the few minutes left until he frantically needs me to let him out to pee, long and pristinely into the nearby greenery.

Is this the normal meaning people find? And I'm not doubting my puppy here, but I am wondering how to calm down and think about life 'rationally'. I'm searching for it, the next step to me feeling myself in the day by day.

It's partially about writing, la la la, but it's also partially about me needing a narrative. I really need a narrative. Once upon a time, J - at age 32 - woke up and found herself, despite the drool and dog slobber upon her sleeve, inexplicably able to [...]. She was able to explain this by [...] and made use of it by [...] and showed all those she loved (...) how much they meant, not just to the world, but also to her, by [...]. She grew above her selfish lust for endless love by [...], and saved, if not the whole world, then at least a very very small part of it, scattered by the mathematical equation written by [...].

She had many people to thank, but she did so by [...]


Happy Birthday to me, I will figure it out. Garsh Darn-Ned It.