Months ago I was doing some extensive research on blogging (comprised of typing “blog” into Wikipedia before becoming bored after five minutes then moving on to Google Anchorman desktops) and I came up with the phrase “dark blog”: meaning, a blog that isn’t available to the public at large. My own writings sometimes occasionally resemble a “dark blog” in an entirely different way and I fear I have been skirting on one of those episodes.
My life seems to have improved in the last eighteen hours or so since Ralph did not in fact die or have his head swell up overnight or hack up a wet lung. And before 9:30 AM this morning I have had four friends come to my aid, or at least explicitly offer to do so. One brings me a mocha and another friend calls to tell me she’d like to bring dinner tonight and another offers to do a grocery store run (or any other kind of run) and still another walks my daughter to school. Thank you, thank you! I feel myself breathing again. We will survive.
Nels’ pox are still almost microscopic but I have a seasoned eye and I know it’s coming. Ralph vacillates between almost resembling himself, personality-wise – hampered only by a gross, plague-ridden appearance – and then suddenly becoming too fatigued to do anything but couch time for hours on end. My mom is slated to arrive this afternoon. Thank. God. Will I in fact have a luxurious, all-about-me birthday on Saturday? I don’t know. Even if the Gentlemen are indeed well, it doesn’t seem entirely right to leave them to their own devices for an entire morning and afternoon. Then again, you only turn 29 once. And what a non-occasion it is, unless you take the time to go to the spa and get some all-girls lunch and go shopping or whatever the fuck sexist yet satisfying stuff you want to do.