July 31

This was the best of about 5 snapshots. Which, you know, isn't saying a hell of a lot. You CAN see that my eye is back to being eye shaped, but in case you were wondering, it IS still sort of, um, misshapen. Yep, 2 months later. Here:

 

 

Wow, I had no idea that tomorrow was August. Shows how much I've been paying attention. It's Sunday morning and you've probably noticed that I've not been updating all that much (read: ever) recently. I couldn't even tell you why. There's nothing particularly bad going on, but there's also nothing particularly good. Since I have nothing cooking, I decided I'd just sit here and type until I'd banged out an entry and then maybe go back into hiding (barring some awesome event I have to report to you all, which, in total honestly, I don't foresee happening.

Yeah. The summer. It hasn't been good, it hasn't been bad. I mean, you all know about the Lionel Richie business which happened so long ago that I don't really feel like repeating the story. Toronto was pretty and clean (to me. Tara and Nicole thought it was filthy and that the people were really rude. Take it up with them, I thought it was charming. It wasn't MY fault our hotel was on the outskirts of a not-so-hot area [note: not-so-hot Toronto style is scads better than not-so-hot New York style]. I didn't pick it.) I came home with two giant bottles of tylenol (not real Tylenol, but you know what I mean) with codeine, and if you don't think I sweat when the customs agent asked if I'd purchased anything, you;d be wrong. Dana, international drug smuggler. I'll just wait by the front door for the Feds to show up now that I've confessed my dirty secret.

Ugh, this sucks. How do I write about a summer where I wake up on weekends with nothing to do and nowhere to go? Moreover, how do I write and make it interesting? I mean, little fun things have happened, like my triumphant rendition of Sweet Home Alabama at the karaoke bar with Shandy, Becca and Doug. I've gone to the casino with my grandmother a few times. I went to Washington DC and tried to see the baby cheetahs, and ate too much meat at a churrascaria in Maryland. But really, honestly, that's it. That's sad. It's pitiful. I spend all winter bitching about how I wish summer would hurry up and come and now that it's here, I'm blowing it. I haven't been to the beach, haven't gone on a picnic, haven't been to a park. I haven't changed my life for the better (or worse), haven't made any big decisions, haven't learned anything new. I don't call people because I don't have anything to say. I look forward to rainy weekends (which, of course, we haven't had) so I don't feel like such a loser when I don't want to go out and do anything. What's there to do? People DO stuff all the time. Why can't I?

Next month will be the 6th year I've kept this journal. When I look back on stuff I've written in the past and it was FUNNY, or it was passionate or SOMETHING I'm completely dumbfounded that that person was me. Maybe I'm just going through a rough patch. Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe a million different things in a million different ways, but I'm 34 years old and I have no idea how to pull myself out of the way I feel, which is, like a huge nobody.

So there you go. That's my summer. Hope yours is better.

 

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