May 16th, 2006

language: it hides our thoughts

The package from the doctor's office

I stopped by the doctor's office this morning to pick up a package that had arrived for me there. After convincing Grandmother that I would be just fine getting the stuff by myself and that if she had stuff to keep her occupied in her car, then I would go in and pick up the package myself. She insisted, but I finally told her that I was an adult and that I had taken this route many times before (both true), and she stayed.

So I went in. Up the elevator, through the emergency room [it was a busy day; I didn't have time to observe the various ailments], and down another elevator. Not difficult in the slightest.

When I got to the ground floor, though, I noticed something new: a sign. To be more specific, two signs: one saying "Psychology" with an arrow pointing in one direction, and another saying "Pulmonary" with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction.

However, I was looking for neurology.

So I looked at the building guide next to the elevator. There it was: Neurology, Second Floor. I took another minute to look around the new arrangement and to wonder why I hadn't looked at the elevator chart before when a lady came up to me and asked, "Can I help you?"

I explained that the layout had changed since I was last there [December], and I was expecting the neurology office to be there; now I saw that it was on the second floor.

She explained that the hospital was doing renovation, and all the offices were being moved around--and yes, neurology was on the second floor.

Back to the elevator, and up to the second floor. As soon as I got off the elevator this time, I was greeted by EEG equipment. [That stuff isn't pretty. Let me tell you. For someone who has been hooked up to two of those things, I can assure you that it isn't pretty--it gets all this goop in your hair--although you do get to sleep through the process.]

I looked around before somebody I had never seen in my life recognized me. I told her that I was looking for neurology (although I guessed it was close by because of the EEG equipment). She led me to a door with a sign that said NEUROLOGY. That would explain a bit.

I went in the office and told the receptionist that Alyson had a package for me. The receptionist asked for my name. I told her. "Nuh-uh," she said jokingly, but she did get the package.

Then I got the parking ticket stamped, and it was down the elevator, through the emergency room again, and down the elevator again. "That was really fast," Grandmother said when I returned.

See? Not bad for someone who loses track of reality because her world is more interesting.

I also made a partial list of things I want to accomplish this summer.

1. Take a chunk out of my ever-growing reading list by, well, reading them.

2. Reread the Harry Potter books

3. Reread the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series

4. Reread my paper journals, starting with #1; this means you'll probably get to see some old entries from age 11 on.

Brother Angst (old old entry)

I was reading through my paper journals today, and I found these little gems.

First, there's the foreword to Read and Die, Nbook #7:

This book is NEVER, I repeat, NEVER, to be read by human eyes until I am dead, buried, and worms have consumed my flesh! Now if only you knew who this notebook belonged to...

And, being the twelve-year-old idiot I was, I had signed my name right under that.

I wrote this the summer before seventh grade, in Read and Die, Nbook #7. I was twelve years old at the time. All I can say is that someone has been in the house for a little too long. No names are changed, but for those who don't know, Jeffrey is my younger brother (should be clear) and Chelsie Roo is my dog (she died when I was fifteen).

19 July 1999
Jeffrey the Brat is so...bratty! Okay, I know you have heard all of this before, but it's true, really, it is! Today he kept begging me to play with him. Like I was really going to! Every time I play something that involves a winner and a loser he always cheats, just so he can win, I guess. I don't really know. I'm surprised he actually has friends at school. Maybe he doesn't act as bratty at school as he does at home. I mean, his idea of pleasure is simply annoying me and hearing me scream. So I came up with a simple solution. Just don't talk to him. Sooner or later he'll give up. (I hope, anyway.) But what if he doesn't? I mean, I still have six more years before I go to college. Can you imagine? It's a nightmare with one major difference. I'm living in a nightmare. Maybe life would be different if I was an only child. I'd have Mom and Dad and Grandmother and Chelsie Roo all to myself. Maybe I should change my last name so people won't even suspect that we're related. Fat chance.

A few days later...

22 July 1999
I know I have said this a million times already but it's the truth, really it is. Why can't I have a normal brother like everyone else. I mean, he bosses me around ALL THE TIME, he MUST have his way, he's always whining, he thinks he's all that, he's always crying if someone says something to him besides "You're the best." Oh, I could go on and on. But don't worry, I won't. Besides, why would I? He's just a whiney spoot-head, anyway.

(posted to sushimustwrite and history_of_me)