surreal_sundays epitome of incomprehensibility Let's pretend things follow a pattern. I've isolated two weekdays, Meatless Mondays and Carnivorous Tuesdays, and I'm about to isolate a third. I was crying, I don't really know why, before the group of us went to the coffee shop. I'd given five dollars to a woman who said she needed it, but the nursing student said she would just buy drugs, and he said you couldn't get a bag of harder stuff for less than ten, and I felt silly and tired. The nursing student asked me how old I was - "I have a sister who's 17" - and I started to cry. "I'm 25," I said, sobbing. A good chunk of me wanted to laugh at myself, and the most of the rest of me was angry at myself or her, but a small part of me was crying and that's the part they could see. I should have said, "Gee, I guess I should become, say, a heroin dealer," because I'd been planning to be cheerfully morbid, a personality I sometimes assume. But it's hard to be cheerfully morbid when you're sad, and it was cold as we walked up Cote des Neiges past the Jewish General. He pointed out the oxygen tanks that supplied the hospital, giant white barrel things on the side of the building next to the sidewalk. One was covered in snow. He explained the chemical reaction that made its condensation freeze, and I didn't understand because I was distracted by the sign just above, "Holocaust Museum 1.2." Before I understood that it was that many kilometres away, my mind made a strange associative leap and I imagined the hospital freezing people alive in white chambers, a counterpoint to the concentration camps' incinerators. No one else commented on the sign. I found myself very cold. Imagining worse troubles than my own isn't always comforting, but the coffee shop was warm and I had peppermint herbal tea. We had a strange conversation about Scotland. 131022 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Apropos of nothing, I ate no meat yesterday and I had a tuna sandwich today. Surreal Sundays, Meatless Mondays... but it should be Poetry Tuesdays today. I still don't really feel like reading funny poems. I have little confidence in my sense of rhythm, besides. But I am strong somewhere. Perhaps in my arm muscles, or my syntax. 131022 what's it to you? who go blather from