Update — suicidal roommate is okay, she’s being held for observation for the next 72 hours. She doesn’t even remember doing it. Christ alfuckingmighty.
This is just not going well, this whole “today” thing.
Well, it was a nice discovery that 75% of the projects I got in motion at work failed miserably without me, because that doesn’t like, reflect on me or show up in my paycheck at all WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HOLY SHIT DID I KILL A GYPSY IN FRONT OF A BROKEN MIRROR OR SOMETHING
What the fuck, man, what the fuck.
Well, I’m jet-lagged as fuck, my phone is once again refusing to charge, and one of my roommates attempted suicide by a face full of vodka and sleeping pills so I’ve just spent the past hour and a half with cops and EMTs and oh right I work insane hours tomorrow trying to catch up from vacation. Life, you are an interesting bitch sometimes.
Well, while driving me to the airport my grandmother admitted she’s been an atheist her whole life and just kind of went along with Judaism because “everyone gets so shrill about religion” but now that she’s dying, she doesn’t really give a damn, she just wants to keep her garden tidy and make sure the house looks good for visitors, and that maybe I should meet a nice girl. I can’t tell if Grandma is baller as fuck or just old enough she doesn’t give a shit anymore, or a very uncomplicated both.
Difficult last day with the grandparents. It’s hard to really describe. Saying goodbyes, heading out for San Francisco in a couple hours.
- Grandma: What are you watching?
- Me: American Horror Story Asylum.
- Grandma: Is that the angel of death?
- Me: Sorta. She was a maid last season.
- Grandma: No, I mean Jessica Lange -- she was the angel of death in that Bob Fosse movie.
- Me: ...when did you watch All That Jazz, Grandma?
The old man in the white jacket sits across the basement from the thing with the black wings. He has been watching it for three days; it does not breathe, nor move at all, except a slight ruffling of the wings. The old man has been staring at it, and it staring at him. Upstairs, the sounds of the party the smiling man in the lab coat is throwing. The chains around the thing with the black wings are gigantic and silvery, almost glowing in the dim light. The old man stares at his own chains, rusty shackles enclosing his wrists and one ankle. The thing with the black wings stares at him, with pitch black eyes that never seem to move. Above them, the party is louder — voices, music, occasional sharp barks of laughter that rise above. The old man in the white jackets wonders what they joke about. He stares at the thing with black wing’s hands — clawed, with too many joints. Was it created by the smiling man, the lab coat man? Or was it captured too, a lost thing chained down in this basement like so many? The old man had seen the storage room, the graveyard that seemed to defy vision, expanding endlessly place the storage room door, an ossuary stretching miles. The lab coat man had laughed and laughed and closed the door gently. Now, the old man stares at the thing with the black wing’s claws, and waits.