So last night I had this vicious nightmare. Somehow, my parents managed to park their car in a dead tree. We went and did something in a house, and my mom and brother climbed the tree to get the car down. Of course, nothing happened because the wheels were spinning in midair. So they rocked the car somehow so it would tumble down. It rolled several times and I was afraid my mother and brother were dead. They walked into this hospital type place and seemed fine, but my dad and I weren't with them. We were just standing outside talking. Then I asked my dad why he wasn't going inside to see if they were ok, and what if they were dead? And he seemed really, really sad like on the verge of tears which is odd because my father has not cried my whole entire life. Not one tear. So I went inside and checked to see if my mom and brother had concussions, but they were fine. That made me feel better.

Also, earlier in the dream, there was this girl who passed in front of me who was really upset so I tried to cheer her up even though I didn't know her. Then I followed her into her house and I started to see her memories, of when her dad overdosed on multiple drugs... on purpose, to get away from her mom who apparently also did drugs. It was very sad and very creepy. None of the people in the house knew I was there.

I have one thing to say to this. Amen!

Composing again. I just got a brand new pad of manuscript paper. It still smells fresh and wonderful. I wrote a theme and four variations already, all squeezed onto one page because I still remember what it's like to not have staff paper. Even though my new notebook has over 500 pages. My hand is slightly cramped from composing. It's been a while.

I've been doing some media fasting and away from the computer-ing. It's been pretty useful on putting my life into real-life perspective.

I also have a friend who's coming back soon from the Philippines with a letter for me, and I'm really excited!

Dear Diary,

I think I'm going to start doing away with the "Dear Diary" posts because they feel much too formal and contrived to me now. It didn't start out that way, but things just evolved and you know, whatever.

So today I went to the doctor and found out I have another stone lurking in one of my kidneys just waiting to cause me much pain and tribulation. Luckily, I still have some ultra strong pain medicine from my last one that I'm going to take with me EVERYWHERE from now on.

Before I went in for yet another CT scan, they made me sit in a little room all by myself for a while. It kinda felt like time out. I started wondering what I had done wrong to deserve it, then I started noticing this mirror they had on the wall which was also a mini shelf with a really loopy metal frame. I just started staring at the little loops, finding shapes like hands and people in them. Just before I went insane, they called me to sit down the hall... to wait.

So I'm sitting there with my gigantic purse bag stuffed with papers that I [still] need to grade, but I don't take them out because I know the law of hospitals. The instant I take out something interesting to work on, they will call me to go to a tiny room, take my clothes off, and change into a flimsy gown so they can take pictures of my insides. So I just sat there and played with the metal bead work and tassels on my purse bag. A purse bag is not to be confused with a man bag. Because a purse bag IS a purse. K.

So I'm sitting there and I get so bored that the nurses who pass by feel sorry for me, and they're so tired that they start talking to themselves. So they end up aiming their self-talk towards me and I smile and nod patiently. Because I'm a patient. At one point, I overheard the woman who was supposed to be testing me have a highly entertaining phone conversation with a woman who needed to take castor oil to... I'm still not sure what for, but I do know that she only took it three hours prior and was upset that she didn't feel the effects. The nurse promptly recommended fluids, faith in castor oil, and promised that the woman would be tap dancing in the morning.

I don't know who this castor oil god is, but if faith in him requires tap dancing, I'd rather go find somebody else because that sounds like too much work. I have a friend that tap dances. She says her teacher likes choreography with lots of hops, but she doesn't like doing lots of hops because there are three sections of her that come up and down all at different times when she hops.

I know, I know. The visual. You're welcome.

So I'm STILL waiting there, and this nurse comes by and deposits one of her patient's things on the chair next to me because he had left them behind. I recognized the up-dated desert camoflouge jacket and reasoned that it must be a soldier. Eventually, he came back for his articles, with a single crutch and a really heavy latin accent. Not Latin as in the dead language, but Latin as in the stupid name we Americans along with most of the English speaking world affix to anything Hispanic, even though French, Italian, and Portuguese were also all inspired by the Latin of the Roman Empire. Ugh!!!!!!!

Ok. So I heard that he was Hispanic, and he started talking about how he had fought in desert storm the first go round, how they liked to put a lot of Puerto Ricans out there because they are used to the heat. Then I couldn't contain myself. I rudely interrupted in Spanish and asked where in P.R. he's from. He and the nurse both seemed surprised, and after a short banter in Spanish, he continued what he was saying to the nurse. Before they left, though, he tapped me on the arm and said, "Cuidate, Mama" which literally means "Take care of yourself, mother" but the mother is kind of like the words 'girly, chic, babe, etc.' in English, used in the slang, whatever, kind of way. But it got my wheels turning again. I'm not a mother...

I have no earthly idea why I'm so talkative. Um, so typative today. Maybe it's because I don't want to do my BSF homework and I definitely do NOT want to grade. *Sigh*