Even in milk

If you were to smell my childhood, it would smell like pot smoke and beer and warm sweet oranges fresh off the tree. It would smell like overheated amp wiring, Jacaranda blossoms, and night blooming jasmine. This is not a bad thing.

I'm trying not to let my mom's visit make me morbid, but it's hard. She's like a cartoon version of herself, and this is hard--we were very good friends during the short period of time between when I moved out and she got married one more time. At some point when I was very young our roles switched and I became the mother. I worry about her.

I feel like yuck. This has been a bad week and for once I'm not going to pretend it hasn't.

In other news, last night's show was pretty cool. (Well, once I sat down and the room stopped spinning.) I really, really like Seattle.

This morning on the bus someone pulled the 'request stop' cord and then the guy across me wearing headphones pulled it too. Because I didn't see the first one pull it, I thought for a second that something was malfunctioning in my brain, that there was a lag somewhere important.

Eroticize Intelligence

My official sealed transcripts came today, and I need to get on the stick and finish my application.

I've been worrying today that my personality is disappearing. Sometimes, I just need to put myself on hold, don't I. Sheesh.

Some things about my mother: there's ( this )

but then there's also ( this )

.

In high school she wore a t-shirt that said "100% crazy" and her nickname was "Old Weird Darla." She can't cook but she can put a puzzle together like nobody's business. Flowers grow whenever she looks at them but she dropped out of her Botany AA two credits shy of graduation. She could sell real estate but doesn't, and she borrowed my roller blades three years ago and never gave them back.