I like books.


I live in a small town and enjoy writing about the inhabitants. I spend most of my time perusing through used book stores looking for that one great book that I don't have; consequently, I have rooms filled with books. I am a book addict.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

missed it

I have strep throat. I thought I was getting the stomach flu again. I was nauseous on Wed and Thursday and so I had a conference to attend and was so excited and packed, got my hair cut, even bit off the jagged edges of my crappy nails. Yep, grooming Arkansas style. Anyways, so I went to bed the night before my plane w as to leave and woke up confused and disoriented, thinking it was a day later and I had missed my plane. Hubby and son calmed me down and convinced me that it was not a day late and so I took Tylenol for a hot face, which was a fever, and went to bed but I couldn’t get to sleep because I knew that my belly was revolting against the Tylenol and yep it happened, the porcelain god called and I spent the night in and out of the confessional. I was so freaking sick. So, I cancelled my flight and planned to fly out on Saturday but went to the doctor to get something for my belly and get there and he looks at my throat and says, oh you have a throat and sinus infection and he swabs it and comes back and says no stomach virus but you have strep throat. A shot in each cheek and a shit load of antibiotics to take by mouth and told to do bedrest and no going to the conference. I cried and cried. My first real conference and I get fucking sick. Imagine that? So, I missed it and have this beautiful conference paper that I am going to present to somefuckingone. Maybe my writers group, yeah, they should listen to me rant on Austen. Oh, today, my throat not sore, my belly not sick, and all I have is a back ache from lying around for three or really two days. And, what the fuck, was anyone surprised that McCain supported torture, he is, after all, a fucking bushwacker or close to it. Waterboarding not torture, what the fuck. Let’s put plastic wrap on his face and pour water and make him think he is going to suffocate or drown and let’s see what he calls it.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Good Bye

Boy From The Wrong Side Of The Tracks died. He was 55 years old, the father of two girls, and had survived an abusive father, the sixties, and a tour in Vietnam. What he couldn’t survive was his wife walking out. He shot himself in the head, fell over into the bathtub and died long before his abusive father found him. Boy From The Wrong Side Of The Track dated my best friend and many nights we drove down dirt roads drinking rot gut and smoking pot. Sometimes he was my champion, treating me like his sister and not letting his drunken friends treat me disrespectfully, and other times he wanted to touch my breasts and even tried to force kiss me. After the drunk driver ran me down and I was left in the wheel chair, Boy From The Wrong Side Of The Track built me a ramp and came over with offers of good pot and conversation, and in his rough exterrior, I knew it killed him seeing me immobile. While I haven’t talked to him years, I will miss him.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Peeking out

When sadness comes, it's just too hard.