Being Real

My dad had a horrible accident on a mountain road on his way to Tahoe on Saturday and he totaled his car. He's lucky to be alive, let alone to have sustained mere scratches and bruises from the accident. He's 78. He's feeling fine today. I'm giving him my car tomorrow so that he can drive home because he's almost out of medecine. I'm not sure when I'll get the Subaru back but you can't send your ole dad driving 10 hours across the desert in your brother's 1993 Toyota Camry. Hello reality? Leave me alone. I hate you. I hope the Camry doesn't smell.

So today was surprisingly relaxing. Maybe because I am feeling pretty fucking great about taking the house in Tahoe from this:



to this:



Granted, it hasn't happened yet, but by god I'm going to make this thing work out if it kills me. I am not even going to think about the fact that work is going to suck giant donkey dicks tomorrow.

Saying giant donkey dicks makes me think of Kelly Hancock. And you know what? Kelly has MS. She also got addicted to drugs somewhere along the line and I wish none of that were true. I get news of Kelly from time to time through my friend Jill, since Kelly got angry with me years ago and cut me off. If you knew how often I pray for Kelly you might be surprised. It's about half as often as I pray for Kevin and that's a lot. Kelly became a part of me when I lived in Atlanta, and I'm sorry things didn't work out better for her. I still laugh over the way she turned a phrase, and I picture her when I'm trying to be gentle with someone that I don't understand. Poor Kelly, I miss her.