0215

0930 Monday

The map maker on the Active Network does not provide enough information. For example: median income is ignored. One never thinks about this type of thing until they find themselves running thru an apartment complex that looked like a street on his or her Mac monitor the nite before. Not such a big deal if the apartment complex does not resemble an apartment complex in downtown Fallujah.

Cars: Backed in. No hubcaps. One burned [and not removed].

Grass: No. Try dirt.

Windows: Shitty broken blinds. All closed.

Children: One. Selling crack.

Child's clothes: Expensive.


0055 Tuesday

A woman has been sick with the flu for a week. She won't eat or drink anything. She is stomping around a house with a block of Velveeta in her hands. She has diarrhea she calls terrifying. Her brother told her via the telephone to go to the emergency room. She took Mucinex. The fella she woke up with her hysterics asks how she expects the mucus to leave her body. Magic?

It has been a long period of illness in the house. Very. Fucking. Long.

A baby is crying in his crib. Most likely from the stomping. The dad abandons his couch bed vigil with the sick momma and takes the baby to the master bedroom. Ninety hundred piles of clean laundry are folded on the bed. One of those piles is the sheets. The daddy puts the baby on the floor with a Wonder Pets toy [the turtle] and a squeezable cow that moos when you press its belly and immediately starts throwing the folded clothes into a laundry basket.

Green Easter grass, as usual, finds its way into the baby's hands. Late October. I know.

0100 Tuesday

The man and the baby watch Intervention. Some guy ruined his family's life with his drug use. The ppl are all white trash. Everyone cries. Commercials come on every fourteen seconds that are way louder than the program.

Attempt number one at returning the baby to his crib fails after two minutes of screaming that feel like the amt of time one spends as an undergraduate.

0200

A show comes on about pot growers in Humbolt county. Hippies. Cops. Non-addicts. Moldy houses.

The baby keeps trying to crawl off the end of the bed. Like a Dark Ages explorer or some shit.

He believes the bed is round.

0300 Tuesday

The dad [boxers and undershirt hair sticking str8up] says enough. The baby goes back to his crib. The little song on the mobile does its thing. Lullllluhbyyyyyye and goodnittttte. Thirty-four minutes later the baby is back in his father's bed. Dogs whine in their crates. The mother coughs and coughs on one of the couches in the den. Perhaps she clutches her bright yellow rectangle of Velveeta like a wooby. Perhaps the Velveeta tells her that everything is gonna be all right. Perhaps her brother is awaiting her arrival at the emergency room.

0341 Tuesday

Hi. I am the only person in this house [out of six] who is not sick. It will be two weeks this Friday. I am losing my mind.