FireVaney

So, maybe, probably, mayhap, I’ll be living several seemingly short blocks from my ex-girlfriend (who hates my guts), my loony great-aunt (who nobody speaks to), and the man who runs the theatre company I might’ve been kicked out of (jury’s still out on that one). That said, life might become more interesting with my probable move back to Edgewater. I’ll miss the energy of Lakeview, but I can’t say I’ve taken much advantage of it. I hate moving. I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT. If I move, I won’t be moving until July. And yet already I can feel the pangs of stress that accompany the act of hauling all of one’s own crap to a new location. I’m reminded of the warning Ole Palahniuk offers in his Fight Club : “Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.”  17 April 2001

A few years back, Betty moved from her condo in Old Mobville to a fancy senior village out on the edge of New Knottydart. One of her brothers had talked her into it. He already lives there. He’s got his own “cottage.” But before Betty made the decision, Pop invited her to live with him. "I can take care of you,” she told him, “but who's going to take care of me?" *   Betty very much enjoys playing “the nurse.” She even worked as one for about a year, many moons ago. When she's here, at Pop’s house, I pretty much stay hidden away in my bedroom. Pop doesn't need two nurses. He isn't an invalid—at least, not anymore. He’s just old, is all.  Travelling back and forth between the senior village and Pop's house, Betty likens herself to a gypsy. She spends nearly every weekend with us. When we pick her up, Pop climbs into the backseat to sit with her. If he didn’t, in addition to playing “the chauffeur,” I’d have to play “the human hearing aid.”  And you might as...

You missed the party. Well, you always miss the party. Well, you always miss. Well, you, well… and then you want to eat the potato chips at night. The medication is not recommended by everybody. Well, what’s the difference? Well, I soberly asked for the dip and she poured it all over my head. Maybe she was drunk. I don’t know. I did not attempt to sniff her breath. Maybe I should have. Had I tried, I would’ve tried to kiss her. And then, and then, Lord knows. That’s the one thing we know, don’t we? That the Lord knows. If He’s there, he KNOWS. And if he’s not there, who knows? Somebody has got to know, right? Somebody has to have all the keys to all of the doors. Right? Lord knows. Bo knows, too. Right? Or did he stop knowing once they stopped running those commercials? I don’t understand why they don’t recycle some of those old commercials. I don’t understand why they don’t use jingles much anymore. I’m so much more likely to remember a jingle than anything else advertisers throw my w...