It’s been like 6 days. Sore throat, unproductive cough with lungs full of crap, head full of crap, dripping out approximately 1 drop per nostril per three minutes. I have been taking care of a grumpy and increasingly ungrateful Doc, who is also sick. He finally went to work today and gave us each a break.
So, it’s the tenth and the dining room table has been “worked on” for about 45 minutes. I can pretty surely say that the big tree isn’t going up this year, and I’m not quite sure how I’m going to roll out cookie cutter cookies. The table is no where near clean. And if it doesn’t go up, he doesn’t need the popcorn or cranberries, because I have nothing to put the strings of them on.
I have this huge piece of fucking medical tape on my nose. See, two and a half years ago, a small scab appeared on the side of my nose. I didn’t notice a zit beforehand, the bloody just kind of appeared. Apparently, I can’t stop picking at it like a drug addict, and it covers most of the side of my nose now. It’s been going a long time. I’ve thought it was healed, only to wake up with a huge bloody scab on it again. On my face. So I have decided to get rid of it by New Year’s. I am bombarding it with antibiotic ointment, packing it with cotton, and bandaging it tight enough to incubate the ointment into the existing scab. I want my face back. I am not a drug addict. I’m sick of looking like one. I need to look put together physically in order to pull of the trashy clothes, or else I’m just another tramp.
I’m thinking of getting make up. I had some ordered, almost. I cancelled the order at the last second. I’ve had wishlists and carts made at every major cosmetic retailer, I just haven’t had the guts to go through with the purchase. When Psycho Bitch was here, she did her makeup so well that I asked her to do mine. I have pictures of it. I looked like a fucking clown. She had to look better than me and get the attention. Bitch. The one slam I go to and I look like a frizzy haired blonde whore. With my muffin top showing through my shirt really badly. which she didn’t tell me about and I don’t have a full sized mirror. It was a horror show. She was in something of mine, trashy, with her nice boots and skinny jeans, and ass like a 20 year old. Ack! I could have looked so good that night. A sweater, jeans, doc’s, no makeup, straightened hair, that is what I would have done. No, I listened to her. And I looked a fool. And at the club, we looked like we were together, me the butch, trying too hard to look straight. A horror show, I tell you. No one noticed my teeth, they were looking at my screaming blue eye shadow. *sigh*
I worked on Lilliane’s Christmas present today. I actually destroyed a piece of art that was almost there to make a piece that is absolutely perfect for the paper I have it matched with. I didn’t know that making it would destroy the original, until I had to peel the original off the new print (I’ve been working with a multitude of grades of plastic and heat).
Okay, dishes done. And after a Mucinex and three Sudafed, to no effect, I am beginning to thing my opening proclamation. But the dishes are done. So Doc doesn’t have to “come home to that” tomorrow. He could do a fucking dish or two. They were all his dishes. I’ve been using paper towels instead of plates. Oh, I’m hanging out and taking care of him, I don’t have time to do the housework between caring for him awake, and being really quiet because he is asleep on the couch. What does he want from me? To bring in the forest creatures? The cats will eat them before I can teach them the first musical number.
I learned something today. I’m not as funny as I think. Doc doesn’t find me funny about 98% of the time I tell jokes or say something sarcastic. And when I say something mean about B, he storms out of the room and refuses to talk to me for hours. So, that’s why Kelli never laughs at my jokes. And why Doc never does. Sobering. Other people used to find me amusing. Or they let me think they did. It’s a strange thing to become aware of this late in life. I kind of have to rethink things. If I’m just some unfunny douchebag who keeps making bad jokes, wow, that is not who I want to be. Not at all. And I’m kind of pissed at a lot of people for not telling me sooner. I mean, I’ve had friends along the way. Someone could have said something. But, it explains some things. Like how some friendships turned to rabid hate on the part of the other person so many times for no apparent reason. I can’t even count how many friendships have ended suddenly, and usually badly, because I don’t get what is going on. Yeah, I have some thinking to do. I don’t know how much writing I’ll do. It’s just more of me, and that apparently is bad. Again, explains 16 years in absolute obscurity. Yeah, someone could have said something. I’m fucking 46 for Christ’s sake.
