Dec 23, 2008


Thank goodness the whole black hole thing cleared itself up (here in my apartment).

I was really worried.

Weird how no one from the world of science (or that of the FBI) appealed to my plea.

It's like they said (the honest people at Hadron): such black holes should be small and should evaporate quickly, of their own accord.


And, if it were otherwise, I guess I'd have a real problem right about now. The kind I might not be able to deal with very effectively here, at frankenmonsterblog.

But historically (say 300 years from now) it would at least (frankenmonsterblog would at least) be relevant as part of a whole "time line" that would certainly reveal itself. Later.

History always revealing itself - eventually.

What I'm worried about now are those pesky stragglers.

Stragglers can instantly turn the entire planet into a "dead lump" (scientists say).

Here, in this apartment, that remains to be seen.

Stay tuned.


The 24th of this month marks the fortieth anniversary of the first ever astronautical view of the earth as seen from the moon.

Where the earth was described for the first time ever as "fragile and small".

Just another little planet with not much more than a "common little star" for a sun.

Though blue. Though thriving. Though clearly alive.

Wow. I love that.

All I recall is that Snoopy was decked out as an astronaut more often than not.

One world. One planet. The evidence was in. At least according to Snoopy. And moon boots. And moon cereal..

Must have been such a heady time. What with Christmas and the moon and everything.

Merry Christmas!

Dec 20, 2008


I have a problem.

Wow it feels good to just state it like that. I have a problem. Ok.

It all started about three weeks ago - when, one day, I became bored.

[boredom: the delusion that one's laziness is caused by something outside of oneself]

So, after a few attempts at playing chess against my computer - then adopting the pretense of "cleaning up this mess" - I just started smashing protons together.

I know. That's bad.

That's why it's so good.

I knew it was stupid - even as I was doing it. But I couldn't stop.

Protons are endlessly smashable (turns out).

Endlessly. Like play-doh. Or cookie dough.
Either way.

And smashing protons is way better than, say, filing bills or cleaning desks.

Actually, I wanted to distract myself from the very bills that would reveal themselves at the bottom of the stack (on my desk).

So, after smashing protons together for about fifteen minutes I guess I lost interest and went to make a sandwich.

Nothing fancy. Just a PB and J.

Though I did toast the bread. And I used a little butter. That is, an omega3 infused "buttery spread".

Albeit, redundantly - it turns out the peanut butter was already infused with omega3!

So crazy.

But healthy - crazy but healthy. That's my motto.

So the sandwich was great.

And I forgot all about the earlier protons. And got on with the process of "hanging out", as they say.

That is, I did nothing for the rest of the day.

It was probably six or seven hours before I happened to walk past my office again.

It was then that I saw the black hole for the first time.

I was shocked.

The black hole was everything I had imagined it would be:

It was black. It was a hole.

It was floating three inches above from my stapler, just to the left of the lamp.

I noticed today that its dimensions have increased. It's at least three times the size it was yesterday.

I've checked around the apartment and nothing seems to be missing.

But still, how annoying?

..stupid black hole that never goes away..!

Dec 7, 2008

does this whole page look magnified to you?

Has it looked that way to you for a while?

Note: it was never supposed to look that way.

I really am all out of ideas. I've checked everything out.

How long this has been going on?

Has it been years? (My god!)

I have it all spelled out in my template - my original template (four years old) that I have been tweaking the entire time.

I realize per my research today - that blogs look different depending on the browser one is using.

But this is crazy.


Dec 6, 2008

please disregard previous post

The thing I wrote about the letters was nice and everything. But it was merely an exercise in avoiding the reality of the situation.

In all truth:

I need to file.

I need to FILE badly.

That's how the thing with the letters started in the first place (how typical that I instead sat back and enjoyed reading the letters).

I feel, here (with the shredder sitting not a foot away) that it's probably a good idea to simply purge all files right now, and begin again.

Not the letters (or cards), but the all the rest that has piled up as a result of the letters (and cards), so to speak.

"Letters (and cards)" being a sort of umbrella - meant to describe a myriad of things that have come my way since my dad died.

Things that require special focus. And any lack of special focus meant a stack of such proportions would grow in my office. Not like a weed, but like a database.

I let my files go - for too long.

Now I see a stack of recipes, bills and various diary entries (all written on random pieces of paper - all without any dates to lend any context) and tears from magazines for a million different purposes - all mixed together in one neat 4' high 8.5 x 11 stack.

It's a stack with sharp edges that is placed at a right angle to the room, and points East, if that matters.

For whatever reason the kittens have not disturbed it, and for that I'm very glad.

And - I can only hope that it's just receipts, recipes, etc.

Really, I have no idea.

Rather than a shredder, what I need is an incinerator. As the idea of using my shredder for so many hours makes me cringe. How loud of me?

Because we recently upgraded to a better one.

Better meaning louder.

Better not being extraordinary.

extraordinary = quieter

quieter = $ + extrodinary

This, too, applies to vacuum cleaners. An upgrade will only be louder. It's only when one begins loitering in the "investment" tier of vacuum buying - that the vacuums begin being quieter.

Much, much quieter.

Victoria lives in Chicago and occasionally writes in her blog..

Dec 5, 2008

hard copies, indeed

I've been going through some old cards and letters that I "inherited" from my dad.

This was actually a much worse pile - a few years ago. I remember an entire garbage bag filled with what seemed like every greeting card in the world.

So, I pared that down. Chose quickly what looked like actual letters, then sifted through the greeting cards for what appealed to me visually - trying to take note of any meaningful /family connections.

The greeting cards were fun for me. The truly tacky, colorful vintage designs appeal to me the most.

And if those were from friends or family, all the better.

Because it's not about cards. ..It's about people.

See. That will be my tagline. For my card company.

Anyway, either way, it had to be pared down. A process I began just a few days ago.

I know. It's been three years. But that's how long it took for me to get this rolling.

Besides, I wanted to address these things thoughtfully. Not hurriedly. And I'm glad that I waited until I was ready.

What I discovered were millions of letters written to my mom and dad from a hand full of people - that, when organized, tell a fascinating story that reads very much like a book.

These letters are a real slice of life that I would have otherwise been ignorant of.

Fact: my parents were people. With lives. Though I knew this intellectually - the proof is so enlightening.

These letters are mostly from the early part of the 1960's. Vernacular was surprisingly not all that different. Colloquialism, however, obviously has changed.

Each persons reluctance to spell out swear words, for instance, yet allude to them anyway (in various ways) is charming.

Funny. That people wrote at all. I know they had telephones. I mean these were letters. Three, four pages, typed and handwritten.

Making even the mundane events reported sparkle - as people seemed to not only really care about things, but have personal writing styles that held a readers attention (even me, forty-five years later, totally uninvolved - could not put these letters down).

I was disappointed when I came to the bottom of the stack.

I began to be able to identify who had written what - per the person's style of writing.

And I really started to care, for instance, whether Kay would ever finally, really - for once and for all agree to marry Gunnar.

..then what happened?


What the hell has happened to us?

I mean, what in the hxxx (rhymes with bell) has happend to us?

Nov 24, 2008

in a town without pity

Sometimes criminals are caught.


But usually well after their victims have stopped holding their breath.

I stopped holding mine long ago.

It was natural. There was no process involved. It just happened. And it's ongoing.

I just got the healthy idea to stop waiting for him to be caught.

I figured that out on my own. Without really thinking. Without so much as words. It was what I did. Instinct. An action. A lack of action.

It was how I rolled: I let go.

Have they caught him yet?

No. The answer was always no. Always followed by an apology. I'm sorry to not make you feel better right now.

(for what happened to me)

It's a bad question.

Even if he had been caught - I would have still gone through the period of not being able to eat.

Of ocassionaly forgetting how to swallow.

Of adopting the habit of walking on the street instead of the sidewalk.

Because it felt safer. Because oncoming traffic didn't scare me nearly as much as other people scared me.

Of having nightmares.

Of waking up coughing as though I had been choked - as though I had been suffocated.

That insane, animal first inhaling - Air!


Unreasonable, unconditional, desperate oxygen.

But, I never expected him to be caught. What with millions of crimes. Every day. Every year. Of course they hadn't caught him.

No. All I needed was to get my shit together again. I was the only one who would end what was happening to me. He would get no credit for that.

closure = bullshit

It suggests that there is some tangible thing out there. Available to people as an ending like a period at the end of a sentence. Something that happens in some orderly way.

Like steps running in a straight line toward something better.


And, say that you've announced in some stupid fashion that you've finally "gotten closure" (the pressure for closure being great).

And, then, three months later you realize you are back in the thick of it.

I'm sorry, due to things I never expected the previous "closure" spoken of is hereby rescinded - I apologize. I am sorry. There was no closure where there once seemed to be. Please, please - forgive me..

Then, just a few days ago, I got a call.

The person who attacked me was murdered on October 1st. He was identified by DNA.

He's dead.

Do you feel better? Does this give you a sense of closure?

Murder - make me happy?

I would rather he was caught while alive and made to answer to his crimes - and face his victims in court.

I never walked around feeling that this was something that stops due to anything outside of me. I never thought what happened to me was unique. People get victimized. People move on.

It isn't personal.

It wasn't about me.

I healed and I am not the same.

This ended five years ago.

This ended five minutes ago. Five months ago. Two years ago. Two days ago.

Because I let go; because I am letting go.

I end this. Not he. Me.

He didn't stop attacking women. He didn't turn himself in. He didn't apologize. He didn't pay for his crimes.

His death is merely an anecdote.

Yes. He will never hurt anyone again.

Yes. This is over.

That's what they're telling me.

Nov 18, 2008

change or die

That is what my ex boyfriend said. Millions of years ago.

He recently passed away.

Did he say it - or was it understood?

Was it understood - or was it on spelled out on some small item on his desk? On a bookshelf?

The mystery that is my real life experience - that is now so long ago that I'm left wondering.

I love mysteries.

And common place mysteries rank pretty high. As this one. And it's so simple and small.

Anyone who has ever read me knows that I can access my memory given enough time and concentration. I can.

But this. It seems I have some kind of block when it comes to certain things.

Certain things.

I simply turn my head. I can't look. It's too final.

Mark is dead.

For how long have I been saying those words?

change or die

I assign them to Mark.

I mean them when I say them. I always have.

change or die..

Nov 16, 2008

a mirror held up to another mirror

Blogging about my blog again:

I thought about changing the appearance of my blog. Back when I originally changed it, it was by manually changing the html code.

The new Blogger has New Templates! that are actually the same ones Blogger provided four years ago.

These new templates do provide a new way of changing one's template, however. And that sounded easy and intriguing.

But the new method is very limited with only about thirty colors, and the same six fonts as before.

I changed the whole thing, anyway.

When I was done I was nauseated by the result.

Then I had a moment of panic when it seemed I had changed my blog permanently.

Even though I saved my original template, I had no idea how to access it.

I completely freaked out. The thought of starting from scratch and tweaking my blog to get it back to square one - was daunting.

I just threw up my hands and considered walking away from this blog forever. Finally!

But then I found it. Actually, the default button. It was right there the whole time.

Another reason I can't use Blogger's new templates is that they all (that's all of them - all, every single one) contain these crazy, useless arrows.

Just arrows for no reason. Pointing in every direction. Arrows made bolder than anything else on the page - with no way to remove them.

I don't get it.

I thought about it for a few hours, too. What am I missing here? Why all the arrows?

What is the benefit of all of those arrows?

At what meeting did the idea of "millions of arrows" beat out "no arrows"?

Those arrows look insane.

I might start a completely new blog simply to change the appearance of this one.

The question is: does posting about the appearance of one's blog at all justify having a blog?

Back to html..

Nov 1, 2008

just let me know if you get this

Hey google, remember me?

About fifteen minutes ago I wrote you a post. Here in this blog.

I keep checking, but I haven't heard back from you yet.

What is up with that?

Maybe it's time that I finally apologize.

I realize our relationship is totally one sided, with you knowing everything about me and me knowing nothing about you.

I'd like to change that. Right now, if I could.

Maybe I should apologize for all of my abuse of google.

Like, I didn't mean to make my own algorithm that one time.

That was purely an experiment. The kind of thing that happens when one - when I become bored. I was just trying to figure out how the whole thing worked.

It backfired. And I'm sorry. Really.

And, the other day, when I googled myself - I just hope that didn't throw anything off.

I know that your history of me is detailed. I use both gmail and blogger so - that's not good. Not to mention (I really do hate mentioning it) that you've kept all of my queries.

That's years of queries.

I can already hear the snickering:

quit smoking
withdrawal from smoking
healthy eating
raw foods
green tea
benefits of chocolate
chocolate cake
double chocolate cake explosion
weight gain
mystery of metabolism
healthy attitudes
non smoker
calorie counter
wheat grass
benefits of olive oil
quit smoking
recovery from addiction
bad dreams
non smoking forum
whole foods
healthy food
self forgiveness
self respect
healthy foods
french food
why cheese is ok
history of cheese
four cheese potatoes
cheese for breakfast
start jogging today
the joy of jogging
sharp pain
sharp knee pain
jogging through the pain
local hospitals
knee braces
low impact exercise
benefits of omega 3
how to drive traffic to your blog
five reasons no one reads your blog
frankenmonsterblog sucks


I have to wonder if making google my home page was a mistake - like the final piece of the puzzle, or something.

And maybe banking with google (google is now my bank) - maybe that was a bad idea, too.

And now that I'm working for google, I can only imagine how this post might reflect on my performance. At google.

I am happy, though, that if anyone googles me - they get hundreds of pages of a new age author.

No. No one can google me.

ha ha

I enjoy that fact. It makes me laugh. I laugh about it all the time.

New age.

Easily digested (like cream cheese). Totally non-threatening.

Such a pretty theory (that goes so great with all of those new candles).

Something for women who - simply by virtue of being fat; simply by virtue of buying new age books - learns that she (and she suspected such!) is already wonderful, worthy, unique, and beautiful - just the way she is.

Really? No kidding.

Because that's all any woman wants to hear, anyway: that she is entitled. To be happy. Even though the evidence to the contrary keeps stacking up and knocking against her psyche.



Let us begin the new age lesson on quieting the truth, right now, shall we?

And, what if I want to be an author one day?

Will I - in order to have any google results of my own, need to employ my middle intial or use a different name?

Have you ever thought of that, google? Because, right now, it's all I can think about.

I'll go by frankenmonsterblog, I guess. That's how google knows me, anyway.

A woman named frankenmonsterblog.

People will love that..

searching for the past - could it be the future of search?

I'm sad to see that google's 2001 archive has been taken down.

I found important things in that archive - via what became my personal habit of cross searching in both googles.

In particular, a couple of interviews of a friend who recently passed away.

Interviews, I might add, that were nowhere to be found in the current, all too vast google.

Because - believe me, I tried.

It was with a mixture of dread and incredulousness (realizing the preciousness of these particular interviews) that I wanted nothing more than to be wrong.

I wanted to find the same interviews in the current google.

I really wanted to.

But, no. Even while employing the advanced feature, these things were nowhere to be found.

I only hope that by bookmarking these sites - I can still access them. I didn't print anything out right away.

Now with the archive down, I'm afraid that that window might be closed.

Silly me, I didn't realize that the archive was finite.

Because it seemed plain that such an archive would be a permanent. It added a strange new layer to search.

I thought google was testing something out.

As nothing more than a snapshot of history - it was unique. That alone. But then you add the fact that it was interactive.

Not that everything was available. But at least half the pages I tried to access were.

Shouldn't search be as multifaceted as possible?

Even if the 2001 archive was only a self generated history (or, maybe, specifically because it was a self generated history) it added something valuable to search.

And isn't that what google has been talking about forever: the future of search?

Google? Are you out there?

-just sayin'

Oct 21, 2008

coffee stain = no longer my problem

Sometimes when I look across the street at my old apartment building I miss something.

I don't know what.

Certainly not the space. That apartment was small.

I don't miss the luxuries - there were no luxuries. Just a scrub brush and big cake of soap (for cleaning the floors, the dishes, me - everything), and a window.

That one window. What a window.

And there was a bathtub - that, when you put a plank of wood across it (which, believe me, was already chained to the tub anyway) doubled as a table - if not and a bed (guest bed).


I mean, no. It was not a great apartment. Not by any standard.

Though, as small as it was, it did have more closet space than I have here, currently, at my supposedly better, bigger apartment. But that's typical (nothing architecturally making any sense ever).

And I really don't miss the coffee stain (bad, grim, incredibly foretelling coffee stain) that - near the end of my experience at that worse, smaller apartment (across the street) - rolled down my east wall (my one east wall) and part of the ceiling, thereof.

That coffee stain (stain: millions of vertical lines saturating a ten by twelve foot wall) being the artwork of a one very special guest - was scrubbed off by me on a Sunday - only to return that very Monday (only slightly deterred).

There it was. The coffee stain - it was still there.

It turns out that, sometimes - paint has a memory.

Sometimes you can scrub and scrub - but a stain will keep coming back.

That, clearly, only paint would suffice - but at that point I didn't want to paint. Not anymore. Not there. Not at that apartment. Because I was moving.

So I washed it off. Or so I thought.

And it's funny because it was only one cup of coffee. If that. Probably not even that. I had been drinking from it (that particular cup of coffee) before my guest took it and, without any regard for anything - flung it (the cup with its hot contents) across the room (at my computer for some reason) and created the coffee stain (that I dealt with and lived with - for seven months) that is probably there still, to this very day.

It was a mess.

A real mess. A mess that reminded me - not daily (I didn't worry about it every day), but at least every few days - that some people may at any point fling anything across the room - at any time.

No, I don't miss the coffee stains streaking down my east wall - like so many candle wax (or is it blood) dripping type Halloween fonts (you know the ones) - employed by the covers of so many horror/monster magazines. A font that I always loved.

Just not as a stain. In my house.

Victoria works and occasionally blogs in Chicago..

Oct 8, 2008


Tell me this isn't scary.
It reminds me of the last time I went camping.

It was years ago. In the middle of October.

We had been hiking for hours.

This was a huge national park. The goal was to relax. To overwrite stress.

No billboards. No signage. Just the sound of birds and the wind through the trees.

A time when spiders were "ok"; dirt welcome.

And there weren't any other humans beings anywhere. It was off season.

But suddenly it became unseasonably cold. We knew the temperature would drop - but this wasn't what the weather channel predicted.

We went camping twice a year.

This time we got lost. It was five pm. The sun was going down.

We didn't panic - not out loud. Not to each other. But internally, quietly, and eventually - jokingly.
It was thirty degrees in the middle of a forest. Animals were starting to come around - and moan and howl.
I was cold.
Neither of our cell phone would work. A Freezing rain had begun to become more like snow.
It had been 65 degrees just a few hours earlier. More than that - we knew where we were a few hours earlier.
We just kept going in circles.
And what I saw was a wonderful sunset - strained through stained glass autumn trees - all beautiful and foreboding and cruel: the realization that five pm in real life wasn't five pm in this place.
Compelling as this sight was - perhaps this is what the end looks like for the unfortunate few. Those that get themselves lost. In a forest that is too big to deal with when you have no way of making a fire in the rainy, wet freezing cold..
Anyway, it's fall - there are so many things to do!
There are pumpkins to carve, apples to bake - sweaters to pick up from the dry cleaners.
I love this time of year.

Sep 27, 2008

situations like these

It all happened so fast.

Never before had he encountered three more incredulous individuals.

Despite their ability to rhyme and their somewhat hip posturing, their intolerance of him was clear.

In retrospect, it probably was his enthusiasm that put them off.

Sep 13, 2008

trick or treat

In Our Next Issue:

They arrive at your door dressed in a strange manner. Sometimes in a frightening manner.

And the question is always the same:

Trick Or Treat?

But is it a question - or is it an ultimatum, with neither the trick nor the treat benefiting you?

James C. said, "..Yeah, I've been trick or treating for many years. Now, with the economy the way it is, I trick or treat about once a week.."

Angela T. added, "Trick or treating? Please, it's a way of life around here!"

Many people weighed in on the subject:

"We started out by going through people's dumpsters.", Jon J. told us with a shrug, "At least with trick or treating we can wear our favorite disguises. It's all about 'maintaining dignity'.."

Community leaders agree, "The instance of trick or treating is up 8% and it doesn't look like it's slowing down any time soon.."

Taking a closer look at: Trick Or Treating

- On News Stands -

Aug 31, 2008

there's definitely a ghost in my machine

The computer I'm utilizing at the moment is indeed a machine.

A big fat piece of machinery. It's so ready to go - and I am so ready to make it go the way of old machines.

I can't wait. Then I'll get a new (probably refurbished), computer. A better, smaller, lighter, faster, happier computer.

I'll call it a devise. It will shine and be cool to the touch.

I will provide it with a soul - much as I did this one. This machine. So long ago.

As I sit here typing, taking bites of chocolate cake* - I realize how ridiculous that sounds. So long ago.

It was about seven years ago that I got this computer.

And then, about four years ago I started this blog.

Why is it that I have jeans that are fours years old that are still "new" - but this almost four year old blog started on this almost seven year old computer seem ancient?

Same goes for the experience I had recently while visiting
this site.

The Way Back Machine. I was impressed with how unlikely it all felt - as close to actual time travel I've ever come - this trip taken back in time via the internet.

Why is that?

A trip that took me back as many as five years (in some cases). Though The Way Back Machine has archives that go back as far back as 1996, most of my favorite websites were created within the last five years.

five whole years..

What the Internet Archive is doing is very cool. And will be as meaningful as time progresses as it is fascinating right now.

2004. A look back..

Seriously. Things have really changed.

*Cake, ineffective as a replacement for cigarettes.

May 8, 2008

I gave up the internet

So, I gave up the internet.

I know, I know.

But it's been great.

And easy. I was just sitting here in front of my computer thinking about how easy it was.

Last night I googled:

what + did + we + do + before + the + internet


I found hundreds of personal accounts, sometimes whole blogs devoted to the topic of living internet free.

I even got into a flame war with another commenter.

It turns out that there are two distinct camps on the matter:

Those who have been successful at returning to an internet-free lifestyle - versus those who not only have no memory of life before the internet, but maintain that there is no evidence of an internet-free people on the internet.

No evidence of an internet-free people on the internet?!

Did they even bother to read the blogs before commenting on them?

Probably not.

And that's the thing about the internet. Right there. In a nut shell.

In more than one forum, the first camp waxed nostalgic about how they used to get their information (mostly stuff about listening, paying attention, pretending to know thngs, and paging through phone books).

Personally, I remember searching my own mind for answers. Sometimes for hours (though, I didn't share this with anyone at any blogs - nor would I, ever).

And what about shrugs? Remember shrugging?

A shrug meant that one accepted not knowing the answer to something.

A shrug meant that it was ok to not know anything.

"Before the internet", I fed back, "people got outside; they made phone calls..!"

And now?

Now that I'm internet free, I feel safe in the fact that I'll never go back.

I say this with conviction.

I mean it. I feel good.

I feel sharp.

My ability to think abstractly is coming back (though, admittedly, I didn't even know it was gone).

And my attention span? It's through the roof.

I dare say, as recently as fifteen years ago (perhaps as many as twenty-five) mine would've been considered an extreme attention span.


This is great.

So far so good. Wait.

hold on a sec..

Sorry about that *laughing* I just had to post a rave about this and many other things on craigslist.


I'll continue to chart my progress here.

In the meantime?

Frankenmonsterblog: Now Internet Free!

Apr 19, 2008

my life, even my earthquake - unfair

snif !

This morning I woke up and walked through my kitchen to the bathroom.

There I contemplated my bad dreams for about five minutes.

Then I walked back through the kitchen to see the ONLY photo I know to exist of me and my dad (that conveys any real affection between us - me, a one year old sitting in her high chair, my dad in his hat, clearly just home from work - bending down to kiss me) laying on the floor, shredded, scratched, chewed, and actually in half.

The missing half is being digested by my cat, Scout, right now.

That's quite a snack.

When I saw this I shrieked.

It was unbelievable.

Thankfully, our faces (mine, my dad's - happy faces - now stupid, almost eaten faces) are still intact. If you can call it that.

I had had this and about five other photos in my date book in my hand bag.

My hand bag was on the kitchen table - where I left it when I got home from work yesterday.

Oddly, I had had a conversation at work the day before about that very photo.

I had no idea that would be the last time I would see it like that. Square. Clear. Uneaten.

I had it in my date book for a few weeks. I was showing a friend at work my niece's graduation photo.

Then she and another person saw the other photos and asked to see them. I told them how this was my favorite photo of my dad.

I have been having issues with photos lately - and they have been well documented in this blog.

This was one of the photos I used to recreate my childhood kitchen (also documented in my blog).

Meanwhile, Scout has shown no remorse.

She really did have to dig though my bag, too - to find this photo.

The neighboring photo (in my date book) with no people in it - of my dad's teen aged bedroom in the late fifties (where he had what can only be described as a wet bar)?


Why not that photo instead?

Why the only photo I have of my dad kissing me?


So, I put what was left of that photo in a drawer.

Maybe I will recreate it in a drawing. That would make sense.

That almost inspires me..

Oh, and there was an earthquake yesterday.

And somehow I missed it.

Even though I was wide awake at the time.

This bothered me all day, yesterday.

Everyone at work said they felt it. Everyone had stories about it

I just couldn't understand how I could miss something like an earthquake.

Am I that wrapped up in my petty problems?

Then, last night, I remembered something.

That moment, early Friday morning, when I silently, hatefully, self righteously deemed my downstairs neighbors supreme assholes for stomping continuously (drunks!) up the back stairs at 4:45 in the morning?

That was probably the earthquake.

As well, that moment of concern (terror) when I felt certain that someone was in our kitchen - that was probably the earthquake, too.

And the way the cats were bolting around and crying and seemed like they were trying to tell me something - earthquake, all earthquake.

I feel a round of "this is my earthquake - this is your earthquake", coming on.

We don't have earthquakes in Chicago.

So when we have one (and we didn't actually have one - it was down state, way downstate) or anything related to one - we make it ours.

Because in Chicago - it's us, not you. Always.

Oh, and when I heard the dishes clinking in the sink - that was the earthquake, too.

And when my rent was late because because I forgot that the check was in my date book (the very same date book of the photos)?

That was the earthquake, too.

See how that works?