A few people may have noticed my complete disappearance from everything. As was touched upon in the never-finished B-word entry, that was due largely to a broken foot and a new boyfriend. It was extended by moving out of my house (where I lived for three years) and into an apartment with Dylan in lower Queen Anne. That was a month ago. I don't have any good excuses for the last month, other than my internet access at work being severely restricted. Yeah, it sucks.
For the most part I've been settling into a routine of housebound-coupledom. I've been reading a lot, since there isn't internet at my new apartment yet (we're lazy), and I spend most of my time at Jon's, where the only thing to do really if he's on the computer is to read. I've been reading A. M. Homes, first The Safety of Objects, then Music for Torching, and I just finished The End of Alice. I bought Things You Should Know as well, but I forgot it at home. If you've read her, you know that she specializes in suburban dystopias (which is almost redundant, anyway), and is generally a pervert. After filling my head with affairs, death, supreme unhappiness, unlikable characters, and the half-mad musings of a blood-thirsty Humbert Humbert knock-off (The End of Alice really wasn't very good. Maybe someone who hasn't read Lolita could possibly enjoy it, though "enjoy" probably isn't the right word), I feel like I need a brain bath. Hers is a consciousless, cum-stained, hate-filled, self-involved universe, and I feel infected somehow, like I couldn't possibly be happy with anything, ever. It's gross.
I'm debating whether I want to read the last book of short-stories just to get it over with and put her away once and for all, or if I need a break. It's a short book. I'll probably just read it. And then I need to find something vaguely hopeful to read, before I give up on humanity. Any ideas? Not The Audacity of Hope, thanks.
What else. Nick has been at BEA for the last five-ish days, and all of his reports from there (which include high-rise hotel rooms and meeting Alec Baldwin) have made me unconsolably jealous. Why don't I attend celebrity-dotted parties? Why don't I ever go anywhere new? Why don't I have a real job? These are not nice questions to answer. In fact I'm thoroughly disgusted by the answers to all of them.
My most notable accomplishment of late was volunteering at the Emerald City Comicon, which earned me the opportunity to gawk at Jamie Bamber, who plays Apollo on BSG. I also walked by Will Wheaton on numerous occasions. I could have met either of them, but didn't have anything to say, so I decided against it. I guess I'm not as big of a geek as I thought.
This part is slightly personal and not meant to alam anyone: my once-robust health has noticeably declined, and I've been to the doctor more times in the last three months than I had been in the last three years. Aside from the foot troubles, I went in for a lady exam, and had an abnormal pap result. This was followed by a colposcopy (which is a terrible thing to endure and I don't recommend it to anyone; though I hear dying of cervical cancer is worse, so, your call), and I just received word on Friday that I have CIN2, which requires further treatment. It's not cancer, but it can turn into cancer if not removed. I'm 24 and I feel suddenly very mortal. I've possibly expressed my premature-death daydreams to some of you, but that's generally more a fear of Final Destination-type accidents involving log trucks, stray bullets, or improbable electrocution. I've very rarely considered the possibility of my body turning against me and taking me down from the inside; yet here I am. I'm squeamish about medicine in general and things involving my reproductive health specifically, so this is essentially the worst thing ever for me to have to go through. Well, disembowelment would be worse. But that's filed with my above, fanciful death scenarios. This is much more... realistic.
I haven't told anyone in my family (I don't think they read my blog? If I'm wrong, well, surprise!), mostly because I don't want to answer any questions about it or have them be worried about me. Assurances from my doctor and internet research concur in the estimation of this diagnosis as both not-terribly-serious and entirely-treatable, but I think my this-only-happens-to-other-people sense of entitlement has kicked in and is making me feel victimized by the universe. Rather, I'm allowing it to make me feel victimized by the universe; I'm not so far gone as to not take ownership of my feelings. Phew.
Moving on: I'm feeling homesick for Maine and my family and have just started planning a Summer sojourn, but it's being complicated by the fact that I would like for Jon to come with me and meet everyone, but he has work-related issues with the time and length of the trip I'd like to take. Some resolution should be found soon (I may just go alone, obviously), and I will of course announce as appropriate when any dates are set.