tulips

...and then I woke up this morning, feeling like road kill that had been fermenting a few days. I know, I know: fermenting implies I was involved in some sort of binge. No such luck. It has been an unbelievably exhausting week, and my blood sugar has been ... well, let's just say that if I keep this up, I'll be blind and legless before I reach 35. I have shadows under my eyes you could lose the US foreign policy in, and a ragged, run-down feeling, like I'd been chewed on all night by small, angry rodents.

I'm typing this in Brooklyn right now, in a doctor's office I'll be doing some work on shortly. My brain is fried; I can't remember previous entries, though I think I might've mentioned something about the rodents before. For some reason I'm fixated on this thought. I'm not sleeping so well, and I'm so tired I'm pretty sure I've gone towards the light and am already dead.

The afterlife sucks, man. God keeps gerbils. Avoid it if possible.

I've been compensating for this inability to sleep by pretending to sleep, under the theory that if I look like I'm sleeping, eventually I'll fool someone and "wake up," refreshed. Obviously I have relationship issues with my body that I need to work out. This morning I was disturbed in my pretending by a phone call from the hotel's front desk. I had a package.

I assumed this was a delivery from work, a long-awaited laptop and install disk for this installation I'm supposed to do today in this Brooklyn clinic, two and a half hours from now. The thought of tht install had given me nightmares all week. I didn't, shall we say, leap out of bed and run downstairs to find out what it was.

I got ready for work. (Yes, I know it's a Saturday. This is my life.) I cleaned up my hotel room. I put on my coat, my gloves, my scarf, got my keys, my computer, my bags, my purse, and marched downstairs.

The girl at the front desk was the one who'd checked me in initially, a week ago. I doubted she'd remember me. I began well. "Excuse me. I got a phone call that I have a package---"

I was about to give her my name, but she dove back behind the counter and emerged with a long, fat box.

Wasn't a laptop. Wasn't a CD. Obviously this wasn't meant for my install. I carried it back upstairs, deposited my stuff on the bed, and pried the box open.

The Guy had sent me tulips. A dozen beautiful pink tulips.

I cried like a baby.

I make fun of the Guy in my journal, a little bit, because he does and says such strange and funny things. People do that. Especially people you love. Just in case I've ever led you to believe that he's an accidental selection out of the bottom of the sales bin at K-Mart, let me just say this for the record:

I am marrying the most wonderful man in the world. My heart is so full, it hurts. Everything that ever went wrong, every mistake I ever made, every decision I shouldn't have made, led up to the day when I met him and fell in love. I have no regrets.

I love you, Yan.

Thank you.