Hi. I’m alive. I know, half of you are all “THANK GOD! I’VE BEEN SO WORRIED!” and the other half are all “Big whoop, so am I” and the other half are like “this girl can’t do math” but I’ve been in San Antonio playing the part of a hurricane refugee, which basically means I drink a lot and walk around looking lost and telling random strangers my pathetic plight while I’m in the line for the zoo trolley. Also, I have to write everything (including this) on my phone and I keep losing service and screaming “Why me, God?!” and then the strangers around me think I just found out that my house exploded and then I have to just walk away because if I tell them I’m just upset because I can’t figure out how to spellcheck my blog with my phone they are probably going to feel much less sorry for me. Anyway, Victor is part of the disaster ride-out team at work and he was just released to leave and check on our house and so he just called and was all “I’m home! And we have power! And very little damage! And I have the cats and they hate you but they’ll get over it!” and I was so fucking relieved I literally cried. Then he mentioned something about coughing up blood and having to go to ER but I muted my phone then because I didn’t want him to spoil the mood.*
So tomorrow Hailey and I are going to drive back to Houston which will probably take about 8 million hours and I suggested caravanning back with my friend who I won’t name, but her blog rhymes with Bookooloonks, but she was all “We’re going to stay an extra day to get tattoos. And skydive. And have orgasms. I’m too drunk to drive. You’re boring. Stop calling me. Who gave you this number?” Then she called me fat and threw a drink on me. Which was weird because we were on the phone with each other. That’s how drunk she was.**
Also, I’d like to ask a quick question: WHY THE FUCK HAVEN’T WE CURED HURRICANES YET? Like seriously, I’m pretty sure all we need is an enormous wall hidden deep below the coast that can be rolled up like a giant electric car window. I came up with that in about 8 seconds. Why don’t we have these yet? Fuck you too, scientists.
*Victor’s fine. They think it’s just an ulcer and I’m pretty sure it can be cured by tough love. Asking him about it just encourages the ulcer. I’m not sure that’s true but that’s my assumption.
**I love Chookooloonks and most of that conversation didn’t actually happen at all. Except the part about her being drunk and having skydiving orgasms. That part was totally true.
Updated: Home. Exhausted. Snapped a picture of the front of our subdivision. That long thing is a flag-pole. The green thing is a tree. The orange stuff on the ground is orange stuff on the ground. Who left all these shingles on my lawn?
Updated again: I think it’s Thursday? Terribly sick. Think it’s the flu or I’m sick from contaminated water. Be back soon.
Comment of the day: I know for a fact that tough love does in fact cure ulcers. And broken arms. Ask my husband. He broke his arm and I was all, “Suck it up, wuss. It doesn’t hurt that bad.” And like two years later he was better. His thumb is permanently stuck in the hitchhike position, but he gets by. ~ blissfully caffeinated