Back to Me

Hi there.

So I snapped out of that week-long schizoid episode and realized I’m hormonal, not insane. You may disagree with that, and you are entitled to your opinion, however wrong it may be.

Once I became rational again, I figured a few things out. First, I don’t hate work. It’s exactly the kind of chaotic, rushed, last-minute challenge I thrive on. Second, I don’t hate you. Except for you, but that’s because you’re a bad person, and not because of any imbalance on my part. Third, things are good. Still very, very good. Sometimes I just need reminding.

On Thursday night, I went for orientation at the Y on the superspecial internet-connected machines. I love any workout that requires an hour-long training session involving probing questions and secret passwords, because that means it’s going to be extra-effective, right? In this case, that’s true, because I’m pretty sure this program was designed especially for me, and they just forgot to tell me about it until now. Like, they should’ve sent me a letter months ago, and I would have joined right away. Anyway, it involves competition and prizes and all of those things that get me excited in a dirty, dirty way. When I log onto their website, it tells me exciting facts such as:

Yeah, that’s right. Volkswagen owners fear me. Next week, I’m moving up to SUVs. Also, since I don’t eat gummy bears, I’m going to suggest they display something more relevant to me:

Last night, we went to see Daniel’s friend Jeremy’s band, Walker Kong, at the 7th Street Entry (which might mean Prince to you, but to me it will always mean Morris Day). My trip to the bathroom was one of those moments to make me feel alive, though not in a good way. The unisex (code for ‘it’s cleaner out back behind the dumpster’) toilet is in a meatlocker, probably where the Minneapolis mafia took care of their dirty business back in the day. They painted the walls with tar to hide the evidence of bloodshed. However, the show was lots of fun, and I was most impressed by Jeremy’s ability to go from mild-mannered art teacher by day to rock star at night, simply by removing the Buddy Holly glasses. Now that is some kind of magic.

This morning, I was on my way home, with the usual detour to the coffeeshop. As always, I was driving like an asshole down 50th Street. I whipped into the right lane to pass a parade of old Edina ladies in their Lincoln Continentals, and didn’t see the cop until the car in front of me pulled over. I knew the flashing lights were especially for me, and I accepted it: not only was I speeding right then, but it’s my habit to display a flagrant disregard for posted speed limits wherever they may be found. I think it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’ve been driving like that for 15 years without a single ticket. I knew my day had finally arrived. Lucky for me, it arrived in the form of the hottest Minneapolis police officer ever.

He totally let me go. And I so deserved that ticket. We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.

Tonight, ____ is coming over and we’re going to ______ and ______. That means you probably won’t be hearing much from me tomorrow.

Hell yes.
Jenni