Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Every Sunday I wake up to some kind of Asian church service at the Episcopal Parish right next to my dorm. It's the most confusing thing you can possibly imagine. Hordes of asian people ( I think they're Chinese) shuffling into the church, back to their cars, speaking in a language that consists, I've come to believe, completely of vowel sounds. I drag myself out of bed and look out the window at them, past the empty wine bottles and the succulent cactus Rachael got me on my windowsill, and there they are. Bowing and muttering and carrying on. Do the Chinese bow? Maybe they're not Chinese. Or maybe they're just super polite Chinese. I don't know, my only point is that it's really weird and I'd like to find a way to make it stop.

Looking at the empty bottles of alcohol on my windowsill now, I'm realizing that as a drinker, I'm kind of bipolar. I mean, there's Domaine des Blagoeurs 2004 Syrah (whatever the hell that means) and then a $14 liter of Viking Fjord vodka. I should note that Dave bought that, I guess, but there's a pattern, and I can't blame him for the Seagrams 7 next to the Salmon Creek Chardonnay...

Wait, yeah I can.

Actually, Rachael and Dave account for like ninety percent of the booze on that windowsill. The only thing I can really claim as my own is the liter of Wild Turkey (delicious, by the way.)

I've got this bump on the inside of my middle finger that feels like an extra bit of bone, and sometimes it itches like hell. If it just hurt, I wouldn't be worried, but why would it itch? What is my body trying to tell me about that thing by making it itchy? It can't be anything good.

But there's no way I'm getting it checked out. I spent a couple of hours in the Emergency Room at Mt. Auburn yesterday with Rachael (she's fine, she just pulled a muscle in her foot or something) and I've had my fill of those places for a long time. I had to fight the urge, several times, to just say matter-of-factly, "She's late." Whenever someone asked "What seems to be the problem." It would have been hilariously inappropriate.

I don't even have a cohesive story here. I had three dreams last night:

In one, I was at my mother's house, and all of our neighbors had rented their houses out to be used to tape porno films.

In another, I was stationed on a river somewhere in the deep south with some kind of turn of the century military regiment. The porno bit kind of bled into that one... then there was a corpse floating down the river and a scorpion kept stinging the dead toe. I thought of the word "Omen."

In another I shot my brother in the face with a bow & arrow. The arrow was yellow. He didn't seem to get hurt, as I shot him several times, and he kept coming at me (there was some kind of battle involved) but I had the sense that I was hurting him.

There was that.

You know, I've been separating my recyclable bottles from my trash since I've been living here, and I sincerely doubt that the guys who take the trash out have any kind of access to recycling. I'm not going to stop separating though.

Jesus, time to take a shower.