Changed my website address, hoping that WordPress would have some cooler features. I think it does. Check it out, and bookmark the new site for keeping up to date.
http://racheldavis.wordpress.com/
November 24, 2009
November 23, 2009
I Like Cheese!
Yup, not a lot going on tonight, but I'm keeping to my promise of a post a day. So here it is. Fantastic, huh?
November 22, 2009
Advice Now. Please.
How can I -- an intelligent, responsible, practical adult -- break myself out of this funk without doing something completely out-of-character / dangerous / stupid? I don't want a heroin addiction, I don't want alcoholism or an arm full of tattoos or five new body piercings or anything like that.
All I really want is to stop the cycle of mindless repetitive action that seems to be my life. Nothing feels new or exciting or interesting --- or even tolerable, half the time. I feel like 99% of what I do is completely meaningless, and I really and truly and honestly can't stand it anymore.
All I really want is to stop the cycle of mindless repetitive action that seems to be my life. Nothing feels new or exciting or interesting --- or even tolerable, half the time. I feel like 99% of what I do is completely meaningless, and I really and truly and honestly can't stand it anymore.
November 21, 2009
I'm Sorry Finny!
I swore I'd never be the person to do this, but my poor red boy gets so cold and uncomfortable in the cold weather. And besides, he LOVES it!
November 20, 2009
Let Me Know How You Do...
So yes, I'm a font snob. But come on: Helvetica is a FAR superior alternative to Arial. Don't you agree? Can you even tell the difference?
Let me know how you do...
Let me know how you do...
Cheesecake
It's been a pretty obese weekend. In the last couple days, I've been to Olive Garden, Famous Dave's, and Cheesecake Factory. FD and CF were related to Nate's birthday, so hopefully this level of obesity will only have to happen once each year. OG was my once-a-month lunch date with Kelly.
Blort. I'm gonna do myself a favor and not step on the scale for a couple days. Sometimes it's just better if you don't know.
Blort. I'm gonna do myself a favor and not step on the scale for a couple days. Sometimes it's just better if you don't know.
November 19, 2009
Happy Birthday Nate!
Today is Nate's birthday. He is such a good one. I am so happy and lucky to have him!
Happy birthday cutestain!
Happy birthday cutestain!
November 18, 2009
November 17, 2009
Lunchbreak Confession #1
Sometimes I "rearrange" the garbage in my cubicle's trash can, so people can't see that I'm carelessly discarding perfectly-recyclable plastic bottles. I don't want a "green" / eco-friendly lecture. I get it: I'm lazy and irresponsible.
November 16, 2009
Writing Practice: Character Study
It’s almost midnight, and already I dread the coming hours. Gayle works the midnight to eight shift, and our hatred and resentment for each other is very mutual. Which is kind of funny, in a way, since we both want the same thing. She wishes I was dead. And while she’s working, I wish I was too.
Every night—it’s been over three years now—she waddles triumphantly into my room. It’s the same routine every night, every time. No matter how dark the night, no matter how peacefully I might be sleeping, she snaps on the bright fluorescent lights overhead and stomps with military precision to my bed, where she rips off the starched white covers and yanks my head backward in one swift, ferocious swoop. She works most efficiently, apparently, when my neck is tilted at its most painfully ridiculous angle. Next, her disposable, plastic-smelling, powdery latex gloves go on with a single, purposeful fwap, and she pries my lips and teeth apart in a mad rush, impatiently sweeping the roof and sides of my mouth to make sure there are no breathing obstructions.
Don’t do me any favors, lady, I want to say.
I had a dog when I was a young boy. Geronimo. The vet used to perform a very similar latex glove procedure on the opposite end of him, except with lots more dignity and compassion.
Gayle’s thin, straight, short hair is always parted unevenly, tucked behind her ears, an almost incandescent white. I still haven’t decided whether she colors it this way intentionally, or whether this is just her hair’s natural color. She’s not old, but not young. Probably early fifties, I would bet. Her hips are approximately as wide as my bed is long, and her long-suffering legs are absurdly short, little sausages poking out from below, pleading for help under the weight and terror of an impending collapse. Her arms are heavy, doughy, and seem to be missing circulation in critical areas. Her lips are thin, always pressed into a strict, severe line, and always painted with a heavy, unnatural red. When she stands over me, I can hear every grunt and sigh. I can hear her strained, wheezy-whistling inhales and thick, heavy exhales. Her breath is labored, but where compassion is necessary I feel only revulsion. I can smell her stale cigarettes from across the room. Parliaments, I’ve decided, or whichever generic brand is cheapest now.
Gayle’s responsibilities for me usually require just over 30 minutes at the beginning of her shift each night. Five minutes to check my vital signs, ensure my airway is clear, and empty my catheter, and the remaining twenty-five minutes to do whatever is necessary to make me as miserable as possible. She sighs heavily through every one of these tasks, making clear to me what an inconvenience and a burden I am. Some nights she pulls my eyelids open and talks to me.
“You gotta knock this shit off,” she’s fond of telling me. “It’s not cute anymore.”
“Just open your damn mouth,” she often scolds. “Is that so hard?”
She likes to leave my blanket just out of reach, believing that if I want it badly enough, I will reach for it.
I want my blanket badly.
But Gayle, though a licensed medical professional, just doesn’t get it. I will never reach my blanket. I’m twenty-one years old, and it’s been more than three years since I’ve moved any part of my body. Though my eyes are sometimes open and alert, the rest of my body remains stubbornly motionless. I’ve experienced a couple tics and twitches that served little more than to excite my mother, reigniting her enthusiastic and completely misguided belief in my full and speedy recovery.
Gayle hates me. I used to fancy this was because she was jealous of me: a healthy, handsome, articulate, happy man with a bright future. I must have overlooked that, by the time Gayle met me, I was no longer any of these things.
Every night—it’s been over three years now—she waddles triumphantly into my room. It’s the same routine every night, every time. No matter how dark the night, no matter how peacefully I might be sleeping, she snaps on the bright fluorescent lights overhead and stomps with military precision to my bed, where she rips off the starched white covers and yanks my head backward in one swift, ferocious swoop. She works most efficiently, apparently, when my neck is tilted at its most painfully ridiculous angle. Next, her disposable, plastic-smelling, powdery latex gloves go on with a single, purposeful fwap, and she pries my lips and teeth apart in a mad rush, impatiently sweeping the roof and sides of my mouth to make sure there are no breathing obstructions.
Don’t do me any favors, lady, I want to say.
I had a dog when I was a young boy. Geronimo. The vet used to perform a very similar latex glove procedure on the opposite end of him, except with lots more dignity and compassion.
Gayle’s thin, straight, short hair is always parted unevenly, tucked behind her ears, an almost incandescent white. I still haven’t decided whether she colors it this way intentionally, or whether this is just her hair’s natural color. She’s not old, but not young. Probably early fifties, I would bet. Her hips are approximately as wide as my bed is long, and her long-suffering legs are absurdly short, little sausages poking out from below, pleading for help under the weight and terror of an impending collapse. Her arms are heavy, doughy, and seem to be missing circulation in critical areas. Her lips are thin, always pressed into a strict, severe line, and always painted with a heavy, unnatural red. When she stands over me, I can hear every grunt and sigh. I can hear her strained, wheezy-whistling inhales and thick, heavy exhales. Her breath is labored, but where compassion is necessary I feel only revulsion. I can smell her stale cigarettes from across the room. Parliaments, I’ve decided, or whichever generic brand is cheapest now.
Gayle’s responsibilities for me usually require just over 30 minutes at the beginning of her shift each night. Five minutes to check my vital signs, ensure my airway is clear, and empty my catheter, and the remaining twenty-five minutes to do whatever is necessary to make me as miserable as possible. She sighs heavily through every one of these tasks, making clear to me what an inconvenience and a burden I am. Some nights she pulls my eyelids open and talks to me.
“You gotta knock this shit off,” she’s fond of telling me. “It’s not cute anymore.”
“Just open your damn mouth,” she often scolds. “Is that so hard?”
She likes to leave my blanket just out of reach, believing that if I want it badly enough, I will reach for it.
I want my blanket badly.
But Gayle, though a licensed medical professional, just doesn’t get it. I will never reach my blanket. I’m twenty-one years old, and it’s been more than three years since I’ve moved any part of my body. Though my eyes are sometimes open and alert, the rest of my body remains stubbornly motionless. I’ve experienced a couple tics and twitches that served little more than to excite my mother, reigniting her enthusiastic and completely misguided belief in my full and speedy recovery.
Gayle hates me. I used to fancy this was because she was jealous of me: a healthy, handsome, articulate, happy man with a bright future. I must have overlooked that, by the time Gayle met me, I was no longer any of these things.
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