Advice or Pie...???

Couldn’t breathe last night. I woke up congested, whistling through a peephole of air in my nostrils. I think I’m sick. I still haven’t cleared off my bed. I have a fresh bag of laundry that I snuggle up to like a man; kiss, kick, push it to the side, hate it and back in love holding it by morning. So misleading, that damn bag. The weekend shall go as followed:

1. help niece Kayla with science project—she needs a vile of my blood…or my fingerprint. Eh, either or. Sure. Whatever
2. begin researching Cardiomyopathy for My Lesbian’s term paper. I have been commissioned to write it
3. clear off bed
4. do some laundry
5. journal
6. job hunt
7. stoke the universe
8. attempt 80 pushups all the while ignoring the fact that Roommate Vinny still hasn’t finished cleaning the dishes and the kitchen is slowly building layers again.
9. torch Roommate Vinny

The season has sent me screaming for my long johns. The high this weekend is 30-some-odd degrees and last year my long johns were my saving grace during this time of dysfunctional weather. They kept my lower half toasty to the point of total ignorance. I pray they hold me together this year too.

I received some really sad news about a friend the other day being sick. *Disclosure of his/her diagnosis when things settle, I suppose* And I’ve told myself don’t blog about it, Ken, don’t blog about it. But it’s been on my mind SO heavy—I think this individual is SO beautiful, how could this happen?—their issue is affecting me.

It was like I got the news* by 4 thirty, had to be at work by 5, already didn’t wanna go in, and had to pretend to be chipper. If I’m not gay-electricity at work—smilin’ and cheesin’ and full of banter and mischief—they’ll think me ill. The problem with thinking me ill is that I work with a lot of black, older, southern-idealistic women and they ALL compete to play mother, asking questions, seducing you with advice, counseling you with pie! "Want another slice, baby?" Neither of which I was in the mood to decline, their pie or advice.They wouldn't've* [would+not+have= wouldn't've] understood my logic. "No, no more thank you. It makes me shit."

I had already sobbed my face off before I got to work, there was no need in worrying the work floor of competitive women. So I contended to smile all night. I think I did pretty good. Gotta keep my mind on thinking positive.

Ooops, wrong word.