JOURNAL ENTRY My Dearest MacBook, Today is a fucking sad day. Today is a sad day. Today should be thrown into the washing machine. Today should be thrown down the crushing drain of the sink (we don’t have a crushing drain in my sink and thus I will have to go find one and throw this day down its hole). Gladys’ father, my coworker Gladys that seats next to me, died this morning abruptly of apparently something related with his stomach. He went in for bypass surgery on Monday to which Gladys remarked he was “just fine, everything went very well”. I remember highlighting how dangerous those surgeries were and how lucky and in good health he surely was for having undergone such a major operation successfully. Today he died of something else. How goddamn unlucky, wouldn’t you say? You go in for heart surgery, you make it to the end but then you die of something completely unrelated that same week. How terribly mad! I’ve be pissed in purgatory demanding a fucking explanation like say, dear god, you could just kill me on Monday without obligating my heart to undergo such a traumatic operation. But, no, you just wanna have a blast, dont you? so you made me wait till Friday to kill me. But god doesn’t like us, we know that. I know that. And she surely didn’t like glady’s father so she killed him in a horrible irrational way. Then I began pondering of the possibility of MY father dying abruptly and how terribly inconvenient that would be and me receiving that phone call and having to fly down to south of the Americas to a fucking funeral. I even thought of how I would have to close my Facebook so I wouldn’t have every single fucker posting shit like “I’m so sorry. You’re strong. I’m here for you. Your dad is in peace with god now”. I picture myself on that long BART ride to the airport, waiting in line while my insides puked all over my heart, while people checked their bags and the security dude asked me to please young lady, take off your belt. Then I thought of going on a crazy killing spree at the airport like a ninja with my belt BANG! BANG! BANG! Yelling barefooted (my combat boots on the security scan machine), demanding everyone prays a Holy Mary for my dead father or else! as the entire airport security rose in the alarm of a possible Colombian terrorist (nobody really wants to bomb SFO, why would they? We have all the hippies here. Everyone loves us). I would sob loudly. My limp body bruised yelling at the fucking cops in Spanish. They would bring a translator thinking I speak no English and in a broken Spanish he would tell me “está usted arrestada”. “Please, hombre, my father just died. I’m sorry”. After running a background FBI check of my clean criminal record, and after noticing that I am, indeed, now, an American citizen who, now, deserves good treatment I would be let free to endure the next ten hours inside a plane. Well, Gladys wasn’t at work today.  (this has turned into a short story. to be continued)

JOURNAL ENTRY

My Dearest MacBook,

Today is a fucking sad day. Today is a sad day.

Today should be thrown into the washing machine.

Today should be thrown down the crushing drain of the sink (we don’t have a crushing drain in my sink and thus I will have to go find one and throw this day down its hole).

Gladys’ father, my coworker Gladys that seats next to me, died this morning abruptly of apparently something related with his stomach. He went in for bypass surgery on Monday to which Gladys remarked he was “just fine, everything went very well”. I remember highlighting how dangerous those surgeries were and how lucky and in good health he surely was for having undergone such a major operation successfully. Today he died of something else. How goddamn unlucky, wouldn’t you say? You go in for heart surgery, you make it to the end but then you die of something completely unrelated that same week. How terribly mad! I’ve be pissed in purgatory demanding a fucking explanation like say, dear god, you could just kill me on Monday without obligating my heart to undergo such a traumatic operation. But, no, you just wanna have a blast, dont you? so you made me wait till Friday to kill me. But god doesn’t like us, we know that. I know that. And she surely didn’t like glady’s father so she killed him in a horrible irrational way. Then I began pondering of the possibility of MY father dying abruptly and how terribly inconvenient that would be and me receiving that phone call and having to fly down to south of the Americas to a fucking funeral. I even thought of how I would have to close my Facebook so I wouldn’t have every single fucker posting shit like “I’m so sorry. You’re strong. I’m here for you. Your dad is in peace with god now”. I picture myself on that long BART ride to the airport, waiting in line while my insides puked all over my heart, while people checked their bags and the security dude asked me to please young lady, take off your belt. Then I thought of going on a crazy killing spree at the airport like a ninja with my belt BANG! BANG! BANG! Yelling barefooted (my combat boots on the security scan machine), demanding everyone prays a Holy Mary for my dead father or else! as the entire airport security rose in the alarm of a possible Colombian terrorist (nobody really wants to bomb SFO, why would they? We have all the hippies here. Everyone loves us). I would sob loudly. My limp body bruised yelling at the fucking cops in Spanish. They would bring a translator thinking I speak no English and in a broken Spanish he would tell me “está usted arrestada”.

“Please, hombre, my father just died. I’m sorry”.

After running a background FBI check of my clean criminal record, and after noticing that I am, indeed, now, an American citizen who, now, deserves good treatment I would be let free to endure the next ten hours inside a plane.

Well, Gladys wasn’t at work today. 

(this has turned into a short story. to be continued)

Tags: journal entry dying the dead friday san francisco queer dad writing