Since Sister Callahan has basically threatened to whack my hands with a ruler like a nun, I guess I better post.
Well, to update what's been going on, the move isn't going to happen. I found out at the end of last week. I ended up tumbling into a depression that I combined with alcohol to get really drunk last weekend.
I think last Saturday I drank maybe 3/4 of a bottle of Seagram's 7 while fixing 7 and 7's, which I consumed during episodes of "Six Feet Under." I fell asleep at about 4 a.m., and awoke just before 8 a.m. with a weird desire to go to Mass.
The problem I had was that I don't know where any Catholic churches are in Tulsa, I don't have a phone book nor Internet access. But I still dressed up and started driving around town looking for a service.
Let me just say that whenever "The Sopranos" is on, I always have a feeling that I should be a better Catholic. I guess since I used that analogy for my situation this makes sense.
Anyway, I passed maybe 15 Baptist, five Lutheran, three Methodist churches and one synagogue. I drove all over Tulsa and ended up two blocks from my apartment at an all-you-can-eat breakfast. I didn't eat all that much because I started feeling a bit dehydrated and maybe a bit hung over, so I bought a big bottle of water, went home and drank it, then slept till just before 4 p.m. when I had to be at work.
My friend Austin said I should include that experience in some future story I write, but I'm dubious. He thinks there's something poetic about looking for the Holy Spirit and instead finding scrambled eggs and French toast.
But for now I'll just try to be content where I'm at. The money here's better than anything else I could get right now, and if there's anything positive about my situation I guess it's that I at least live right next to a great place to get breakfast for $5.99.
8 comments:
It's about time you posted. Whacking your hands was the least of the nunlike things I had in store for you.
Nothing is holier than a good breakfast when you need one.
If you get a wild urge to go to confession, call me first.
Catholic mobsters aside, that is the most "Six Feet Under" story I've ever heard.
God to George: "Just have a nice breakfast and sleep it off, son."
I think "Six Feet Under" is more appropriate. I mean, take out the sex, drugs and dying and what I do can be considered the journalistic version of taking something rotting and trying to pretty it up.
Oh, the life of a news designer.
Isn't some of the news about sex, drugs, and dying?
Well, it's Oklahoma, so the drugs are meth and the sex is straight.
"Six Feet Under" is about pot and X, and the sex is mostly gay.
But the dying, definitely. It's a record homicide rate this year.
"Well, it's Oklahoma, so the drugs are meth and the sex is straight."
I love you, G.
Yeah, I was going to say, your story is very "Six Feet Under" except that you didn't get in a drunken fistfight or get a blowjob from a hunky delivery man.
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