Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones

Cleo Sue icons (emphasis on the "Sue," not on the "Cleo") for taking and using: because it didn't really happen if you didn't make icons.

So, here was my exciting day yesterday:

I dreamed that I was at this giant-but-extremely-rickety outdoor stadium watching what I think was a baseball game with Jennifer Connelly. She left to get us something to eat and came back with a chocolate bar, but then she was upset because it didn't have almonds like she thought, and we were arguing over whether to return it or not when (and I am not making this up) the Elder God Cthulhu showed up riding a two-headed... something... and we made a break for it. When I got home, the news was showing all this footage of Cthulhu eating people as the skies went black and everyone was running and screaming. Kids, just say no to midnight snacks.

Could not sleep from 3:30 to 4:30.

Got up; went to breakfast at Chappy's with Mom; went to three grocery stores for the weekly haul (what? Western has the good meat, and only Vincent's has the salad dressing I like). Also, I bought a little potted mint plant. It was on a little stand full of fresh potted herbs, and I wanted it because my grandmother used to have mint growing by the last step on the deck stairs. She's living in a different house now, but for some reason, the mint ceased to exist years before she moved, and I just really like the smell of growing mint. However, the label on the pot is more than willing to tell me that I can use said mint for "sauces and jellies; brew leaves for mint tea; add to fruit drinks; finely chop leaves and add to yogurt or sour cream!" and the little mint plant is looking at me like, "Please. I want to live."

Came home, was tired, slept. Did not dream. That I know of.

Got up; bumped into desk; perfume sample committed suicide. Beth had filled some of my imps so full that once I uncorked them for a test sniff, I couldn't get the stopper back in. Snake Oil was one of those; it's sitting very carefully on my nightstand with the stopper in as far as it will go. Umbra, a freebie, was another, and I set it on the shelf over/attached to my desk. You know, kind of like separating explosives so that if something happened, they wouldn't both fall over. Well, something happened. The imp of Umbra falls off, hits my keyboard, bounces, hits my knee, bounces again, and hits the floor. Thankfully it hit the Hard Plastic Thing On Which My Chair Rolls rather than the carpet itself, but my keyboard and my jeans were now, and are now, quite fragrant with Umbra. What does Umbra smell like? Until that moment, I did not know. Now I can say, with great confidence, that it smells like dirty hippie. Patchouli with some cedar and, allegedly, a "dribble of cinnamon," if you want to be precise. Actually, I think it would smell fabulous on a man. It does not smell fabulous on my keyboard.

Earlier in the morning, we had discussed how my medication was running out (mild antidepressants; without them, I'm just sort of mopey and have a hard time concentrating, but entirely functional), and how it must be time for another medicine check. "You just went!" says my mother. "I did not! I'm running out! Clearly, three months have passed!" So she says she'll call. I'm still cleaning up the accident at Three Hippie Island when she appears in the doorway and says, in dire tones, "YOU DO HAVE AN APPOINTMENT, AND IT'S AT TWELVE. TODAY."

It is now 11:45.

I can totally make this, yo. The building is really close to the house, they're always running late, my sister drives like a demon anyway. Unfortunately, I still have to walk into Dr. B's office and say, "Hi. I am really sorry about this. I am not smoking pot. I am not working at a headshop. I am not following Phish around on tour, I am not camping out at the grave of Jerry Garcia. No, I did not know the perfume was going to smell like this. Please just give me my drugs."

I come home. I eat muffins.

I can't really account for much of my afternoon. Was probably faffing about on internet. Shut up.

The Lovely Emily and I had made plans to possibly go to a movie last night, but they were always contingent on how she felt when she got out of her massage, so I wasn't like ZOMG I AM SO BETRAYED when they fell through. Actually, when she left a message and I couldn't even understand what she saying, I was like, "That? Is a good massage." So I settled in for an evening of... hiding from my parents' dinner guest (actually a former coworker of my stepfather's) because I was in weird social anxiety mode. Just... I don't know. My mom has a few friends that I'm actually sort of independently friends with, because they're cool. But most of my parents' friends, it's like, "Oh, your mom said you were writing a book! What's it about? ... Movie parodies? Now what are those?" I mean, I feel like we're speaking entirely different languages and I'm having to interpret between the two just to make them understand what it is that I even do. Nice people, but I just didn't feel like justifying my existence all night long. So I hid. My room's upstairs, so I can do that. One problem: I neglected to grab food first. So it was kind of a while before I could emerge again. Like three or four hours. However, I made myself a salad out of the leftovers--cold grilled chicken, nameless but expensive cheeses, Roma tomatoes, Greek peppers, all kinds of nice things--and it was awesome. And I made off with about a third of a loaf of extra-crusty French bread. And I am the kind of person who almost thinks that a bad day is worth it if it ends with a good meal (what? It's the little things, people), so... mmm.

I open some more boxes in hopes of organzing something. I find several binders full of H.P. Lovecraft stories I'd printed out a few years ago. (Why I was dreaming of Cthulhu before I found these, I do not know.) I curl up in bed and pick a couple at random, and somehow I find the only two stories, seemingly, that I have never read before: "The Picture in the House" and "The Rats in the Walls." And they kind of freak me out. So... that's pleasant.


Site Meter

Tags: bad days, cleo sue, dreams, lovecraft
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →