I was contemplating my navel--you know, the Mysterious Process by which perfectly normal words are joined together into sentences, one day growing up to become full fledged stories, novellas, novels, and other literature-ish things, but then there was pizza and I forgot it all to wallow in cheese, hamburger, and pepperoni and mushroom and sausage. The sheer grease factor should terrify me, but I have decided that I will contemplate what I'm doing to my arteries when we can clone them properly and buy them at Wal-Mart on the way home when we realize we've messed up our own.
No one can say I'm not an optimist.
In other news--there is no other news. Work was *slow*. In that way that ended up with me giddy and lightheaded because I had nothing to do, so carried on inappropriation flirtation with one (1) coworker and one (1) client.
*sighs* Thank God most people know not to take me seriously.
Allergies continue to drive me insane. My nose hurts and is red and highly unattractive. My hair refuses to stay straight for any appreciable length of time. I own three pairs of glasses that I paid too much for and I discovered the downside of prescription sunglasses.
You really, really *can't* take them off when you go inside.
Well, I can't. Insta-headache when my eyes adjust from seeing through them and then back to less-than-clearsville. People give me weird looks while buying pizza wearing sunglasses. Frankly, five minutes wearing sunglasses inside and getting looks is totally worth it, as taking them off and spending the next few minutes massaging the bridge of my (painful) nose is totally *not*.
Anyway, that was my adventure.
Then I started thinking of how I wanted to be remembered after I die.
Actually, I was mulling this yesterday, during and after the Memorial Service, when friends and family of the deceased got up to talk about him. For some reason, it made me vaguely uncomfortable--now granted, I was at very best only an observor, so this probably works for family and friends at this time. Thing is, I come from a long, cheerful line of people who deal with grief the *really* old fashioned way--whiskey and poker wakes, with huge sandwich platters. Don't knock it, either. I'll tell you that some of the most fun times of my childhood were after a death in the family.
Though I can say that pretty confidently. I've only grieved once in my life, despite the sheer number of funerals I've attended, when my grandfather died. The entire sequence of events is very vivid--oh, not the *things* that happened, but the feeling. My mother says I was hysterical when she told me. I don't remember that, or what I did, or much of the people who tried to comfort me, or the people who had to leave the house because they couldn't listen to me anymore and stayed outside until I either went to sleep or someone drugged me. I think it was the former, since my parents weren't huge fans of pharmaceuticals. I just remember the feeling.
But I was at this service, where I didn't know the person who had died, but listened to his friends and family talk about him. And I watched his best friend, his family, his *brother*, break down in front of everyone and just--no. I can't imagine doing that. I can't imagine wanting my *family* to do that. Grief's such a private thing to me, in some really weird and probably repressive and unhealthy way. It almost--I don't know the right word for how I felt watching yesterday. Just that if and when my family deals with my death, they don't think they *need* to do anything like that. I mean--if it helps them deal, great, go for it. But if they think it would honor me and it's not a successful means of comfort--no. Go home and get drunk and play poker and cheat. Go dancing and get high. Have meaningless sex.
I don't know. Since I became a reasonably reasonable adult, I haven't had to deal with it. Death in the abstract, death in the relative concrete, but not personal, not since I was as old as my son is now. And after yesterday, I'm reminded how much I don't want to know, either.
I'm still very bored. I'm going to go watch QaF until something gives. Possibly this story idea that won't. Go. Away. Even though it's not even an idea, just a glimmer. A glimmer of glimmer. Or something.