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had several bad dreams last night. In one, I was at a seedy diner hanging out with a youngish woman and her sociopathic boyfriend. Neither had any money, so I bought them some food. But when I vanished for just a moment, the boyfriend rooted around in my bag and stole a bunch of money. When he did this a second time, I confronted him and one of the waiters on the diner staff made him show us the contents of his pockets. We found all kinds of big bills (in weird impossible denominations like $505), but none of my money at all. Most of today was occupied by my obsession with the painting I started yesterday of the boy alone in the forest. In the evening, I scanned it and you can, of course, see it on the background of this page.
oday was a unusually social day. We had people stopping by. First came Michelle, ostensibly to pay off some money she owed me from Friday night. Every time Michelle visits, she manages to inadvertently leave something behind. Today it was some candies that she says she has to eat to maintain sanity in the face of her hypoglycemia. [Jessika later did a perfect imitation of Michelle explaining this.] Later on Bn came over and hung out for awhile. Jessika and I weren't doing anything very entertaining at the time; I was obsessively tweaking my painting and she was spending most of her time in her room. But we finally got to hear about why exactly Bn went to California. It seems that he met some girl on the internet who thought he was kind of cool and paid for his ticket to fly out. She was kind of a dork, he said, but there was another internet girl who was pretty cool. Peggy visited further into the late afternoon, and while she was chatting with Jessika in the kitchen, Amy from Memphis materialized. By this time the last of the Simpsons reruns had played out and it was time for Monday Night Potatoes over at Wacky Jen's place. We all have standing invitations to such nights, but I was so behind in my musings, I actually passed up this social function. I have to limit the entertainment value of my musings just so I'll have enough time to write about stuff. It took awhile to pry myself away from my painting. I fixed myself a drink and started typing.
hen she came back, Michelle. This time she was accompanied by a youthful skater boy, a sort of lackey it seemed (so Jessika reported when she and the others walked in on this scene at the conclusion of their Potato Night). Michelle treated the skater boy most cruelly, stomping up to my room, whipping around on the stairs and ordering him to find his own way home, and then closing my door behind her. At this point she was nothing but nice to me, but I didn't have time to socialize. When Michelle left my room, she expected the skater boy to be contritely waiting for her downstairs, but he wasn't. I came down the stairs to discuss this and other things with the Potato People, an all-girl crowd now comprised of Kirstin the Eco-radical, Amy from Memphis, Wacky Jen, Deya and Jessika. Wacky Jen is Charlottesville's info-queen (that's a euphemization of a term used by Jessika). If Jen hasn't heard a story from someone else, chances are she was actually there. For example, Jen's arraignment on the charge of selling alcohol to a minor occurred the same day as Michelle's arraignment on some sort of Espresso Corner-related charge. Jen reports that Michelle threw a sugar-deprived fit in the courtroom, restrained though she was by iron shackles and chains. Later Amy from Memphis mentioned that mosquitos are more attracted to women than to men because of the higher sugar content of female blood. I wondered aloud what mosquitos might make of Manic Michelle's hypoglycemic blood.
ate at night, after the extra people had all gone home and only Jessika and I were still awake, there came a manic knocking on the door. I was too afraid to check it, so Jessika did. It was Michelle again of course. By the time Jessika had made it downstairs, Michelle was already in the house, with an over-accessorized metal-gargoyle-adorned wine bottle in her hands. She'd left the bottle at our house months ago and said she was back to reclaim it. She was pouring its old wine content out on the living room floor completely unapologetically. Then, in a final manic moment, she dashed up to my room and handed me a partial bottle of Carlo Rossi burgundy vino, claiming it was mine (it wasn't) and kissing me on the head. After Manic Michelle was gone, Jessika and I discussed the matter in depth. According to Jessika, there had been a whole carload of teenage boys in Michelle's car while she was in our house. We don't know what to make of them; perhaps they're her groupies. It's all very very weird. We tried to figure out how to lock the front door without resorting to a key, but it wasn't possible.
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