Tthis is a week that sneaked up and applied its mighty boot to my posterior, hard and repeatedly. Ouch.
I've been trying to write something about my acupuncturist (yep. I have an acupuncturist now. I, too, find it hilarious) that is worthy of her. I've been trying to finish something about how I did a fun show on Saturday and was, surprisingly, not tossed out of Berkeley for having bad vibes. Then it turned out that I needed to apply whatever writerliness was available to me to the project of trying to convince a singularly delightful man not to break up with me.
I regret that it's left me anecdotally challenged. So, instead of reading about the actual events that I am (non-contractionally) meant to be describing for you, I invite you to envision an epic battle between the acupuncturist and the bad vibes. I think it should involve light sabers, but you may employ whatever defensive mechanisms you like. It's your imagination, after all.
Tomorrow I'm off to Los Angeles where I will soon be squeezed into some foundation garments and a dress that I've rented without knowing whether or not it will actually fit me (cliffhanger!), to witness one of my dearest friends wed his dream girl. If you think I'm not going to cry, you're nuts. Worst case scenario, the dress does not fit, so I wear a sheet and the fancy rented necklace, which would allow me to forgo both the foundation garment and the tissues (what is a sheet, really, if not an enormous tissue?), On reflection, maybe that would actually be the best case scenario. We'll see.
When I get home, I'll tell you some stories.