It finally happened!
I’ll provide you with some context.

Last October I was fucked by one of those evil cameras installed at traffic lights. I was lost in Van Nuys. After I had pulled over to consult my Thomas Guide, like a diligent little Angelean, I continued on my way and stopped at a red light. Then I accelerated when it turned green. Stuff a sub-ape could do. Not being familiar with my surroundings, I didn’t realize that it was a double light, and just as I noticed this, the second light was changing yellow, so I went for it. As my rear tires crossed the stop line, BAM. Red. FLASH! Camera-bot. I had a sinking feeling in my gut that I was fucked, but I forgot about it as soon as I triumphed and found my way home. Three weeks later I got a hefty ticket in the mail. I went to traffic court and actually got the fine reduced from four-hundred-some-odd-dollars to a hundred plus eight hours of traffic school to get the points taken off my insurance. Of course, that would include the sixty-four dollar tuition fee for my “education.” I had until April 18 (tax day) to accomplish this mission.

Hell yeah, I put it off til the last minute. You know me. The other day I signed up for online, all in one go, fax-in-your-certificate, kamikaze traffic school (as seen on tv with Kelly Osbourne). It was beyond remedial and I was appalled that there were flagrant grammatical and diction errors throughout the text. Even worse, in the final exam, which was multiple choice, the errors were so egregious that the questions and answers didn’t agree and it made it difficult to even understand (unless I put myself into “think like Australopithecus mode,” and even once that didn’t work). Despite all this bunk, I passed with a 96%.

In the course evaluation form, I let them know how disappointed I was in their poor use of the English language, and if they would like me to proofread their text, for I am all edumacated an’ shit, feel free to contact me. This is not the first time I have left a comment of this nature in an evaluation, and I am always confident it will either be left unread, or dismissed with an “oh, the hubris of kids these days…”

Well, THEY FUCKING EMAILED ME!!!
Right???

The nice man told me that he would love any help I could give in that respect, and he would refund my tuition for my work!!!

FUCK ME!!!

My father, ever famous for his constant stream of bromides, has a favorite: The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

In this case, pun included, it finally happened!

Last night a friend called to tell me she’s dying.

I made it through ativan withdrawal. My physical symptoms were hell the first week. As expected. They gradually subsided. I needed friends. I am so fortunate to have you. I still have residual anxiety. I expect to for a while, but I actually do have the strength to handle it. It’s something to be proud of, to be sure, but it feels like small potatoes at this moment.

My friend received her grim diagnosis just hours before she called. I wanted nothing more than to “fix” it. I suppose this is a natural reaction. To think there must be something that can be done. She was already in acceptance while I was in denial. I told her I was, and she laughed. I said, “Let me have my Kubler-Ross phases!” She didn’t want to have the morbid “goodbye” talk. She just wanted to…talk.

I didn’t ask why she chose to call me. She hadn’t even told her family the news. The last she’d spoken with then, earlier that day, she’d told them she was going to be okay. That’s what she’d been told, until a CAT-scan revealed the horrible truth.

Maybe that’s exactly why she called me. Just to talk. Dealing with family would be heavy. Of course I am…I’m…I don’t even know what word to use that doesn’t sound too dramatic or self-involved. Really, I’m still in denial. She’s here, we just spoke. I can’t imagine her being…gone. But she wanted to laugh. To talk, and to keep on. And this, I can understand.

In terms of gravity, I cannot imagine facing anything close to what my friend is experiencing. In dealing with the panic of coming off ativan, though, the thing that helped me the most was to get out of my own head. To talk to friends. To step out of my situation. To laugh at myself. The absurdity of it all. To think of myself, on the phone with Lees, saying “I can’t breathe!” while I’m sitting there, breathing just fine. Watch crap tv. Do the dishes. Do the fucking laundry. The goddamn motherfucking loathsome laundry. Stop fucking philosophizing, because that’s how I got into this hole in the first place.

I may be straying from the point. What is the point? Does anything mean anything? Am I philosophizing again? Am I about to write the sequel to “Waiting for Godot?”
How can an existentialist play even have a sequel?

I did something really difficult. And my friend is dying. She’s looking into hospice options.
Is life just stupid?