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There is ice on my car in the morning
While I clean it cursing and spatting
in the dark.
and spilling coffee on the heavy briefcase.

And the winter shoes and no socks
because the laundry is all dirty.
While you are sleeping in the bear-warm
comfort of a clear ice-ribboned day
through a window of double-paned glass.


Oh lord. 7 days until I am 25. A quarter of a century. Little to show for it.

I am burned out on trying to reinvent or self-help myself. I go through cycles where I alternate accepting and rejecting myself; where I decide my problem is a lack of stimuli or too much. The internet presses down on me.

Gumbo Ya-Ya (Everybody talks at once.)

Every day just gets away from me. I have this terrible problem of listening to the wrong people, a problem of inaction. I just trade my life away for small, finite pleasures. Watching massive amounts of television. Eating somewhat poorly. I haven't written anything I've been proud of in a few months.


Having said all that, I am going back to school in a week, taking 18 hours: 2 walking classes, 1 computer science class (in Pascal), 1 Texas Political Science class, a class in Science Fiction and TWO Shakespeare classes, so, it may just be a fat lot of ennui. Next week, I'll be to busy to be bored and I'll be belly-acheing about my course load and not wanting to graduate.


I should kiss my parents feet for sending me to school. I see people working at restaurants and retail and I think "If I play my cards right, I won't ever have to do that again." Don't get me wrong, I could easily end up in a menial job WITH a degree, but the odds are better that I won't. That is a fucking magic ticket from heaven, given how much I loathe and despise most of the jobs I've had in the past 7 years.

It's dark in my room, as usual, although there's no sunlight at the time this took place. I'm waiting for my friend and her husband to get their butts home with some food, since I haven't eaten all day.

There's a half-finished blanket in the basket at my feet. It needs to be expanded but I don't have the energy right now. Let's see what's in the good old inbox.
What's this? An Email from my aunt asking me to call them as quickly as possible? Oh boy... this is bound to hurt like hell.
You know that icy cold chill that runs down your spine like someone's just thrown arctic wind from your scalp to your knees? That feeling.
A three-way skype conference, and my grandmother and aunt pick up different extensions of the phone.

Me: "WHat's going on? I got the communique, and I'm a little confused. is grandpa ok?"
Aunt: "He's fine. But, $myname, your, your mother is dead."
Me: "I beg your pardon?"
Gran: "Yes, she's dead. Heart attack."
I do some mental math.
Me: "At the age of 40?"
Aunt: "Yes."
Key in the door. I'm fighting tears as my friend walks in, she sees I'm about to fall apart right here and now.
Friend: "You look like hell warmed over. you ok?"
I nod, brushing tears with my fingertips and unplugging the speakers so she can hear the rest of the conversation. She listens, silently hands me my dinner, and walks out. Ouch.

There was no funeral. My family were too lazy to take care of it, and I was not about to do it, as it wasn't my responsibility. I'll find where Mum's buried and take some flowers.

Damn but I miss her. And I feel guilty because the last time I'd talked to her it was to tell her I wasn't ready yet. When she realised I meant it, well, I got the reports, and it was a heart attack, but she had lethal levels of certain drugs in her system.
Great. Just great.

Mom, for what it's worth, I'm sorry.

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