But that’s not what comes out when the time comes. Instead, when he cuts me off with his car, I am unceremoniously yanking up my bra. It is a dark parking lot full of fellow women coworkers after a long, slow day. I assume no one will notice. He says something as he pulls to a stop in front of me, leaning out the window.

“Sorry?” I say.

“I thought you was my age, I was gonna ask you out, come out with me.”

“…No, thanks.”

“Uh huh.”

I turn around with a disbelieving laugh as he pulls past me to see if Kristen and Sharon have heard. They stand looking confused. I cross the two empty rows, about to repeat it for them, when the dark car turns around and heads back in my direction. I take the last few strides to join my coworkers and shake my head when they ask me what he said.

“Is that him?” asks Kristen. I take big gulps of water as the car circles us, achingly slow. I am flanked by two women, one of whom has been attacked outside before, yet he takes his time, still hanging out the window.

“Keep going, buddy,” we mutter when, after twenty seconds of idling next to us, he continues on.

Kristen and Sharon stand with me for a few minutes. They don’t want him to see which car I get into or which direction I turn. “Go left, go left,” I breathe when he reaches the mall exit.

“Was he in the store? Did he see you in there?”

No, I don’t know, I don’t think so.

After a sort of scary train and bus ride back to Belmont last night, the rest of the walk home was capped by a pair of fourteen-year-old boys riding by on bicycles. My mind spun into overdrive. If they had stopped or harassed me or said anything, my instinctual reply would have been:

“Back the fuck up, children.”

The closest you’ll ever come to seeing me drunk.I have had some unimpressive segues between emotions today (Wednesday, power outage = late posting), thanks to getting my wisdom teeth out. I wasn’t nervous in the least while waiting, only restless. I tried going to sleep late last night so that I wouldn’t be tempted all morning to eat breakfast or drink water, two of my very favorite but now forbidden pastimes. But I fell asleep early and couldn’t stay in bed any longer than eight-thirty. In addition, I was feeling very reluctant about taking anesthesia, as I’ve never been put out for anything (I like knowing what’s going on during extractions and root canals). Between that and my three unconscious visits to the kitchen for some toast, all of which ended in “Oh, FUCK, right,” my early drive to the surgeon was more than warranted. On the way I noted how grey the sky was and how much my head hurt.

I now understand why it’s called laughing gas, though my receipt of it confirms my heretofore unfounded belief that I would break out into a rage if I were ever placed under the influence of anything. No one was talking to me, but my legs felt warm and a goofy grin appeared on my face. I felt stupid more than anything, and immediately began to fight it. Within thirty seconds, I had no more desire to laugh. Maybe she turned it off, or maybe I just have impressive will power. A third woman came into the room and told me I was a good girl as the IV went in, and then she said to the other two that the doctor still had two more consultations to go and that she wished they had been told before they started me on everything. I remember thinking, “Oh terrific, can’t we just get this thing on the road?” Next I knew, I was being carried from the operating chair to a rolling recovery recliner, gauze shoved in my mouth.

I thought I was with it–like, with. it. When my mom came in, she told me that she had proudly completed three crossword puzzles from the book I gave her while she was waiting, to which I said, “Oh, burg greel. Grob me that grob.” As I worked on the next puzzle, she told me to stop it, just lay back and close my eyes like I was supposed to. “Ahb fige!” Then I wrote on the top of the page, Friendlys Fribbles!! The doctor then arrived, saying things that I can’t remember because I talked right over him in more garbledygook, and then presents! Complementary Dr. Lane chapstick, a very warm, green Dr. Lane fleece blanket that hasn’t left my side all day, a whole pint of Peaceful Meadows “blockblet!” ice cream, and five teeth (one broke in half).

I tried to deny being helped down the handicap ramp by both my mom and one of the dental assistants because I was more than fine. I was so fine, I could drive myself home. I could navigate Boston traffic during rush hour, all while telling great jokes, then get out and cross a circus wire (and that’s how drunk tight-rope walking occurs, folks). Upon hitting the lightly misting and sobering rain, however, I realized how not okay I was. My head lolled on my chest and the window for the ride home, my stomach churning uncomfortably and an ache appearing in my jawbone. I had to be half-carried upstairs, into bed. My mom pressed two bags of peas to my face, then it was off to sleep.

I slept on and off for the better part of the afternoon, never able to stay up for longer than a half-hour. Every time I thought I was going to make it, that things were looking up, something would start hurting, namely my head, which has always notoriously caused pain in my jaw. I managed to eat a bowl of nanas and take a Vicodin, although I was so numb it was impossible to tell whether I’d actually taken it. When every last drop of water dribbled down onto my Dr. Lane fleece, I finally grabbed a mirror and took a good look at my “Breaking news: someone beat the shit out of Scarlett Johannson” bottom lip. Cracked and bruised, I put some Dr. Lane chapstick on, although I had discarded the mirror at this point, prompting me to say, “I don’t even know if it’s going on.” My mom chuckled and said it was. “Don’t laugh,” I snapped. The only thing keeping me happy was my brand new Victoria’s Secret Boston College cropped sweatpants, comfy as can be.

I slept fitfully, managing to get in a few chapters of I Am Legend and a few spoonfuls of ice cream, although they were very few. By six o’clock, it was hurting too much again and I asked for another Vicodin. Immediately after swallowing, I said, “Gonna throw up,” then ran upstairs and did so. My teeny tiny jaw could hardly take it, and soon there was a substantial amount of blood in the bowl, requiring three flushes. Towards the end of it I cried out, unusual for me as I pride myself on being a silent puker. I called frantically for my mom, thinking the stitches had ripped open. I couldn’t swill any water or brush my teeth; nor could I take another Vicodin just then, and we didn’t have my second pill from CVS yet, so I demanded someone go get it. Also, (“Boo you want me da buckin’ wight it out?!”) I wrote the message, “I want those Oral-B finger things b/c I am not going to sit w/ vomit in my mouth.” In an annoyed huff, she and my dad went, so that he could drop her off to pick up my car and get me my necessities.

While they were gone, the old familiar guilt settled in, and I decided on giving them each a hug for helping me out that day. I had been a real jerk the whole time, and although it’s to be expected after any kind of surgery, I hadn’t really said thank you yet. This plan went horribly wrong, as I approached my dad on his return with my arms out and he reeled backwards, demanding to know what I thought I was doing. I tried to explain through the gauze that I felt bad about making them go on such short notice, and he just stood there bewildered. In a panicked, hurt voice, I shouted, “Hug me!” I got my wish but not my reconciliation.

During dinner next, I tried to eat some nanas, but immediately fell asleep sitting upright. It happened between each of the four bites, with each pause my hairline and shirt back becoming sweatier and sweatier. I stumbled dizzily to the couch and lay down, riding out the hot flash for about a half-hour. Since then, I’ve been better. I’ve rewritten this entry twice (damn double-clicking mousepad) and only fallen full asleep once. My Novacain is almost completely worn off, and I was able to eat some more ice cream and take another Vicodin without problem. I feel well enough to go get some vampire reading done, since frankly, with all the orifices I’ve got blood pouring from right now, I look rather like one. One with a ScarJo mouth and a fat neck.

“I understand how frustrated you are, I’m frustrated too, but the phla-phllll–sorry, just stumbled over my words there.”

“That’s all right.”

“It’s Robert Redford, he was just given an honorary degree here today. That’s no excuse for tripping over my words, but–”

“Oh, no, please, if I had just seen Robert Redford, I wouldn’t be able to string two words together, either.”

Dreamily, “I feel bad, there were others receiving degrees and I can’t think of their names, because he’s just so…”

“Ha, I completely understand.”

“Anyway!”

Well, my ginger cookies went all right. The recipe I used is a healthy option from the newsletter I work for, so they feel a bit like rubber to chew, but they taste quite good.

I’ve had a few freakouts this past week, and I’ve felt unreasonably anxious at times. Every morning when I put on mascara, my hands shake and I slam them on the counters when I’m done. I had only just begun a crossword puzzle when I felt like throwing it across the room for not yet being finished. It’s all in my hands, they feel the most antsy. I try breathing exercises, but I have no regimen, so what I really do is I just breathe and pay attention and try to let it go, to convince myself that there is NOTHING TO BE UPSET ABOUT. It hasn’t worked too well.

On the other hand, I’m feeling better in certain ways. I am not necessarily consuming things that are better for me, but perhaps I am temporarily, psychologically tricking myself into thinking I am. I pack a lunch almost everyday at work, a lunch that I made, often using an actual stove, or sometimes just the handiest container of peanut butter. My health has seemed under control, though. I have been wearing contacts for a week and a half–dailies, the ones you throw away every night–and so far, so good. My ballin’ skills are slowly improving. I do buy a cinnamon doughnut on Tuesday mornings, and every now and then I just say screw it and go for the bagel at work, but overall, I think I am fooling my body well enough.

Mostly, though, I’ve been working, working so much that when my paycheck arrived yesterday, even my coworkers were blown away by how much I’d made. Which is, of course, good news, because the reason I am working this much is to make money. It’s also to keep my mind distracted, though, as every now and then Moses-related sadness grips me. Unfortunately, although this is part of my intention, it doesn’t always work; whenever I step behind that cafe, everything nice evaporates. Customers have seemed more assuming and hurtful, coworkers have been overbearingly concerned with my psyche, and our company is so desperate for money that they only think their policies halfway through before sending them out, each more baffling than the next. I have so many useless numbers memorized that have led to so many useless algorithms. For the rocket science I am doing on a daily basis, I am not getting paid nearly enough.

One thing I am still not doing is treating myself to anything fun very often. I don’t know if I ever think it’s going to pay off in some glorious land of milk and honey, or whether I think people will worship my outstanding discipline, or what. All I know is the moment an opportunity for fun presents itself, I clam up and feel around for obligation. Even something as simple as “Chinese food after work?” gets met with, “Well, I’m actually not feeling too well, and I promised myself I would read at least 30 more pages in my book tonight, and I do have to work in the morning, and I think Bits hasn’t seen me all day and she seems to have separation anxiety lately, so. So I think I’ll have to pass tonight.” Of course, the next question could be, what is fun for me? Maybe this is the next inner quest.

I think it would break someone’s heart to hear the questions I have, in the voice that I feel them. Or maybe I mean, I wish it would. That’s probably what I mean.