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23:36 - Thursday, Apr. 28, 2005
maybe all my wishes will come true
Wheeee! NightRide closed early! Booo... it's kind of indirectly because I sort of crashed the loaner van. Into a curb. Better than another car. The real issue here is: it's APRIL 29TH and it's BLIZZARDING. Is this supposed to happen? Noooo. The weather forecast says it's supposed to blizzard for a week, which is supremely uncool. My dad is coming in a week and we're supposed to go to some hot springs. I suppose hot springs would feel better if it were cold, though. Shut up.
I started the original van up tonight and heard, instead of 'VROOOM', 'click!' and then 'click!' again, which isn't the sound you want to hear when you're starting a car. After awhile I started hearing 'clunk!' so we had to get another car. Which I crashed into a curb less than an hour after getting it. I was driving, and then ice happened, and then steering-wheel locking happened, and then brakes didn't happen, and there it went. It's the first time I've ever crashed into anything, which is why I'm so excited. Well, that and because right after it happened we had to close early because of the dangerous roads. I am home at 11:43 on a Thursday night! Without a two-way radio squawking at me! And maybe school will be cancelled tomorrow and I won't have to give my presentation on the Stolen Generation! AND MAYBE ALL MY WISHES WILL COME TRUE!

11:07 - Tuesday, Apr. 26, 2005
chicken broth = ten thousand orgasms
I am on the third day of a three day juice fast. For the last 64 hours I have had nothing but diluted apple juice and diluted apricot juice. Diluted grape juice was supposed to be somewhere in there, but Nick accidentally picked up grape juice from concentrate, and you're not supposed to use that.
Every website you read and every person you talk to claims it's supposed to be a mental high, a spiritual experience. Some sort of breaking point, or turning point. I don't see this, perhaps because I am about the least conventionally spiritual person ever. I don't fit into the fasting culture: I don't do yoga, eat only organic foods, follow the Bible to the word (surprisingly, a large number of fasters do so because someone, I don't remember who, did it in the Bible), recite incantations over dinner, meditate, dabble in homeopathic medicine, or believe in 'The Earth Mother'. So I wasn't really expecting to blow my mind on this 'natural high' fasting bloggers kept exulting about. (Speaking of natural highs, I just realized, as I was typing, that the last thing I consumed before this fast was actually not food, it was pot. Hee hee! But right before the pot I consumed an entire Passover seder dinner, so it's pretty even.)
Anyway, the spiritual experience for me basically consists of being really, really hungry, and kind of dizzy if I forget to drink juice every ten seconds, and being unable to puff out my stomach at all. Well, there's more. I still wouldn't call it spiritual. But my other senses have stepped up to the plate in absence of being able to use taste, and my sense of smell is OUT OF THIS WORLD. Nick and I were up in the anthropology conference room and someone in the kitchen down the hall was warming up a frozen dinner. You know how when a frozen dinner is warming up, you can sort of smell it, but your nose is just like, 'okay, that's some kind of frozen dinner... probably has, uh, rice... or pasta... in it..... and, uh... plastic, maybe...?'? Well, MY nose was like, "THIS GOURMET ANGEL-HAIR SPAGHETTI WITH GARLIC BASIL PESTO SAUCE AND PORK SAUSAGE AND MUSHROOMS AND SUN-DRIED TOMATOES IS SLIDING DOWN MY THROAT RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT. AHHHHHHHH."
And my hearing was like that as well, which wasn't as pleasurable since it was just the streetlight buzzing noise (at a supremely obnoxious high G) being amplified like 5000 TIMES and coming in through my window while I was trying to sleep. I'm going to try to balance that out tonight by making Nick give me a massage and see if my nerve endings are that amped, too. I have until tomorrow morning before I can eat, and even then it's going to have to be chicken broth or a slice of orange or apple. Chicken broth sounds to me right now like ten thousand orgasms.

16:11 - Sunday, Apr. 24, 2005
the game 'baby'
My mom and I, and on rare occasions, my dad and I, would play this game when I was little: the game Baby. I was three, or four, or god forbid five. It involved me crouching under a blanket on my mom's lap pretending to still be in the womb. She would go on and on aloud about her desperate wish for a little girl, citing traits that she wished this little girl would have. She'd say, in a dreamy voice, things like “I wish I had a little girl... whose hair was as blonde as wheat and whose eyes were as green as the sea! I wish I had a little girl.... who could play the piano very well , and who liked to write stories about monsters and wolves, and who could ride her tricycle to the playground all by herself!”
Somewhere in the midst of her wistful rumination, I would stir under my blanket. She was supposed to say, “oh! What was that?! Oh well, it must have been nothing...” and continue naming traits for her fictional little girl. After perhaps ten minutes of this, interrupted by occasional stirrings and flailings from her womb, increasing in intensity until she would have had to be a blind, deaf person with no nerve endings to not notice that there was a fullsized four year old in her 'womb', I would stick a limb out from under the blanket. She would grasp it with shock, then slowly begin uncovering me until I was in full view, blonde hair, green eyes, ability to ride to the playground myself and all. Then she would exclaim, “Wow! There’s my little girl, right here! And she's everything I wanted!” And I would hug her, and she would hug me, and she would say how happy she was to finally have a little girl, and I would say, “Again!” and she would have to think up either an excuse for why she couldn't play again or else think up another game. If she didn't dodge succesfully, I would use my big four-year-old brain to make her feel guilty about taking her new, perfect little girl for granted and ditching her to, say, go make dinner.

 

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