puking from the top bunk

I was too depressed to write anything lately. Or maybe just didn't have anything to say. Right, Christmas. Busy, nice, etc.

Eleanor threw up five times last night. The third time she puked in her sleep, on herself. the fourth time she stuck her chin over the edge of the bunk and threw up off the side, onto Charlotte's pillow.

I went to the gym yesterday and it felt great. prescription for depression. I was practically dancing on the elliptical machine to...Phish. I thought about how absurd it is that I try to play down my interests that Chris doesn't share. I confess. I love Phish. I told him I would have made a great wife for a hippie.

We saw My Morning Jacket at the Chicago Theatre last week. Pretty awesome. I felt distracted by the irritating audience members, so I tried to get a beer to relax, but they wouldn't sell to me. Apparently my license has been expired for fifteen months.

On New Years Eve, Chris and I played guitar hero and it was really fun. Why you would want to practice getting good on a fake guitar, I don't know, but I can't the idea out of my head that I am going to get us a bass and a guitar. I don't care anymore if that's poser. That's the fear that has kept me from trying till 31 in the first place.

I think maybe I am an art poser. Through grade school and HS I really liked theatre and I was good at playing an instrument and singing and also making an ass of myself in public. In visual art, I prefer the process to the product, ephemeral art to archival. I like the openings, experiences more than I care about the objects. usually. I am a minimalist. I don't want to collect art. I'm a pragmatist too, so I don't want to go through the expense to create something without a good reason. It's not black and white, but I think I may have missed my calling by a few degrees. I don't know. who cares.

Chris is reading this awful book that he actually bought by a self-indulgent, self-proclaimed buffoon, tucker max. He is reading me these bits that he is laughing out loud about, and after passing through feelings of, who gives a shit, then, what an ass, I arrived at wait a minute, I pulled some of this shit in college and you didn't think it was funny at all. I actually arrived at jealousy that this guy was having more fun than me now. Surely, within the hour, I will circle back to who gives a shit.

Eleanor is throwing up again.