I get up around twelve. Mornings don't exist anymore. My head empty from any sure fire actions for the day. Aimlessly I loaf out of bed, look at myself in the mirror and eveluate the intensity of my hangover. This mornings' was suprisingly on the light side. So need for overdosing on myprodol or a visit to doctor Doobie. After a very satisfying trip to the bathroom (definitely one of the better moments of my lazy-ass days) I usually end up in front of the computer for my morning rounds of facebook snooping. There after i spemnd a few minutes on my blog, staring at it mostly, think a bit about changing the title, and then eventually just look at my own self indulgent posts. I've tried to think of ways to make it more interesting and less about myself-but its kind of impossible. Unfortunatly all I can write about is the muddled up mess that manifests inside my mind. So while I'm waiting on inspiration to kapoof! into my life I've decided fuck it.This is is my diary.The last time I hade one was in the fifth grade. I found it a few years back and cringed at the content. I'm sure, infact I hope, in few years time I will be cringing at my 23 year old self as well. It's the beauty of growing up.
C.S lewis quotes the Bible/Jesus- 'something cannot truly live until it has died' or somethin like that. I find so much truth in that. My grandmother is close to the end and you can see it in her eyes. She's waiting for death. It's already part of her life-tugging at her aching bones and unraveling her fragile thoughts. All of a sudden I want to ask her so many questions... who was her first love? What was it like going out in the 1950's? Did she wear gloves? My grandad, what type of man was he? How the hell did you raise five kids on a teachers salary? I realized that I really don't know my own gandma all that well. I know I love her. I know my mom loves her mom.I know she was both father and mother to five kids. I don't know if I will cry at her funeral. I've only been to one funeral I can recall. My grand fathers-on my fathers side. It's strange how I've heard more about him after his death than I did while he was I alive. I didn't know him at all.I didnt cry at his funeral. Ouma kinky (my grans name-sweet huh!) though... has a place in my heart. She used to take me and my brother to the park. She was a avid gardner and always let me help plant her flowers. Her back yard was a favorite playground of mine. She kept her bread crumbs for us so that when we came to visit we each would get a bag full to fling away and watch in delight how countless pigeons and other birds flocked eagerly around our feet. She never buys birthday presents for her grandkids-but gives us money instead. She made the best biscuts ever. Simply put, all I know about my grandma is that she was, and still is a great grandma.
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