drinking with the devil

The Cigarette Fairy is usually a friend's father, who unknowingly pays for all his daughter's cigarettes. But tonight, it was a pretty boy with tousled brown hair who gave me two packs of Camels in the bar tonight. Being a random cigarette company rep must be strange. Ah, the fun of going out drinking on a Wednesday. No classes for me, no finals.

I like running a tab at the bar, and it was not nearly as much as I imagined it would be. Especially with all that gin.

dry and cold

Having a cold, and being ill in general, ranks as one of my least favorite things in the world. I would rather deal with serious wounds, or break my toe, than have my nasal passages unusable. It's a good goddamned thing I'm not like some people we know.

Soda in this Staropramen glass I smuggled out in my purse, and finishing up A Crown of Swords. I had forgotten how bloody complicated this story ended up, and I hope Robert Jordan plans on resolving something withthe next book in January. I will also spend an hour messing with Photoshop, and determining that I am tired of every font on my machine. Meanwhile, the light will press on the clouds until the sky is hard to look at, grey and white emptiness. At least it is dry.

"You can look at life as a poem, a story, and you can see yourself . . . In moments like that, you find not only lessons for your own life, but you find something beautiful in ordinary life, something that links you to the past and to the future." - Viggo Mortensen

The man writes some interesting poetry. I have never quite understood poems, though I love them and hate them with great passion. There are a good many things out there that I just do not feel. I like Andre Breton simply because of the complicated, fantastic words and because those poems were given to me by a man I respected. But it's a strange, secret guilt I carry around. To sometimes be so taken with an arrangement of words, and to hear them in my head, and then find another that just waits like a piece of metal, unmolded and unfinished, without a clear reason or system to follow my response.

I am chilly, and I think too much.

domestic violence in our lives

I went by the house to pick up some clean clothes, grab my furry hat and my coat. Ran into my mother, who enlightened me to the newest installment of the family drama.

Dimwit has apparently been violent with my sister. About a week and a half ago, he did something to her that put a huge bruise down her side and possibly cracked some ribs. Perhaps throwing her into a wall. She lied to my mother, said she had fallen down at work.

Sunday night, my mother got a frantic phone call from my sister begging her to come over. She could hear Dimwit screaming in the background. Thankfully, my mother lives five minutes away, and sped over. Apparently when my sister hung up with my mother, he attacked her and she tried to dial 911. Dimwit yanked the phone cord out of the wall when he realized this. But since it was a hang-up call, the cops came out. They arrived right on my mother's heels, and it took two police men to bodily haul Dimwit down to the car.

Charges have been filed. She has an emergency restraining order, and Dimwit is rotting in jail. With any luck, there isn't a chance in hell he can make bail. Especially with his other assorted legal problems.

Damn, damn and damn. I'm furious. I'm so thankful that she made the choice to not let this go any further. My sister may not be one of my favorite people, but no one needs that. No one. Just absolutely not. It's vile, to think how that stupid, wretched boy took her for so much, and then turned around to hit her. What a bastard.