Fluid Pudding

I’ve spent the evening searching for joys to distract myself from the election. The following two screenshots from a few years back make me insanely happy, because I like to think that I have a neighbor who would like to speak to some chickens, and maybe to a dog who has seizures.

Another joy? The pasta salad I made for dinner.

National Fountain Pen Day was on November 1, and I scored a great deal on a Monteverde Ritma. It arrived today, and it’s beautifully simple and clean.

This is one of my very favorite photos. Harper and Meredith went to Lollapalooza separately, but met up on the final night for the Zeds Dead show. I love that they’re so close. May they never need urgent medical care that their doctors delay or deny due to fear of prosecution.

Today I bought some cleaning supplies, ate a bag of gas station pickles, drove 100 miles, and let myself into an empty apartment where I wiped down a toilet and some sinks (and a bathtub) before vacuuming and sweeping and wet-jetting the floors (and dusting baseboards). I then took Meredith and her very favorite person out for lunch before driving home in stupid heavy rain.

And I did all of this while dressed like Kurt Cobain.

Because I’ve been mostly absent from Fluid Pudding for the past couple of years, there are so many things I’ve neglected to share with you. None of these things are particularly significant or soul-stirring, so maybe it’s best to just squirt out a few photos and let you create connections in places where no connections exist. (The word squirt in the previous sentence didn’t really work. I was trying for some alliteration but then it got creepy. Let’s leave it in.)

Oh! Hey! What? WHAT?! Someone with a hypodermic sat in my car and injected red stuff into their leg and I let it happen because: Things Are Different Now.

(My favorite part of the Olympics was pretending the divers were naked when their names popped up. (I guess when you take a photo of the television screen, things get out of hand and hands get out of things.))

I didn’t buy these jeans.

But I bought this shirt.

And this shirt.

And this shirt.

And this shirt.

And this shirt.

And like I said: Things Are Different Now!

(Things really aren’t so different.)

We carried things down the stairs. We carried things up the stairs.

Meredith now has a fireplace with a lovely front cover, which is the perfect way to begin a new chapter.

The building’s art made me feel a little uncomfortable.

The restaurant’s bathroom door made me feel very uncomfortable. (It’s clearly a directive so I did what I was told, but I’m not sure why I needed to be fully naked just to wash my hands before dinner. The men’s bathroom door said UNZIP, which would have been so much easier. When the sun rises, it rises for everyone!)

The tempura avocado taco made up for everything and more, meaning the next seven times I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, tempura avocado memories will step in and suddenly the discomfort will become a delicious warm green crunchy thing.

NaBloPoMo?
Don’t mind if I do! (That’s a directive, and you are my implied subject.)

Below the line is the final installment of my alphabetical journal.
Installment #1 (February 16, 1990 – March 28, 1990) is here.
Installment #2 (April 4, 1990 – August 9, 1990) is here.

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August 16, 1990 – March 17, 1991
After everybody showered, we went to a restaurant called Hooters where we had chicken wings. After Rally Night we walked to 210. Afterwards, we took him home and the rest of us went out to the field again and then back to 210. Afterwards, we went over to 210 for the Halloween party. Afterwards, we went to 210 for fried chicken. All these thoughts are going through my head. At around 11:00, they came from her party to give me my Christmas present—a rock from the art museum. At around 2:30 we went to Denny’s where we met a Saudi Arabian guy named Shaun and three of his Saudi Arabian friends. At around 8:30am, She’s Having a Baby came on, so we watched it.

The Rock

Damn. Does that mean something is going bad?

Either before Denny’s or after Back to the Future, we watched Birdy. Even as I write this, I’m on the verge of tears. Everything is not back to normal.

For the past two weeks I’ve been going overboard with diet pills and laxatives. Friday morning, we got up at around noon.

God, it’s so weird. Goodbye. Guess what else? Guess what?

Happy New Year. He calls and asks me out, I say no, he gets pissed, and then he calls again the next day and the whole process starts over again. He dropped acid last Friday night. He had been drinking, too. He had never seen the ocean before. He said that people were shooting dirty looks at him the whole time. He said that she is the most boring person in the world. He said it wouldn’t work because people would know. He wasn’t a big help.

I don’t know. I ended up going back to the party with them. I felt really bad for him because the paper kept ripping. I gave him my phone number. I had been doing gin shots and drinking beer, so I was semi-tipsy. I hate mentioning his name. I hate this. I hope I can remember it all. I just feel really ugly. I want to get some muscle relaxers. I was so nervous going to that party last night. I was so upset. I went downstairs and got my stuff and told her what was going on. I’ll tell you why. I’m the president of your fan club. I’m writing this as we drive back from Florida. I’ve been getting prank phone calls for the past three days from some guy who calls himself Charlie. If you need something, I’m there. If you sort of want something, I’m there. Instead of getting deeper, it got shallower. It was a Christmas tree drawn with crayons on a piece of notebook paper. It was the hayride. It’s getting dark now.

Last night there was a party at 210. Last night when she was out of his sight, she was flirting with the bouncers. Let the motherfucker burn.

210

Maybe I’m being stupid. Most of me hates her. My pillow is full of big black smears from my mascara. My stomach is growling as I write this.

Now I can’t because of the skank.

Okay. On Monday, we got some peppermint schnapps, made hot chocolate, got some blankets, and drove out to a field to look at the stars. On the way back to the apartment we stopped at the studio.

Plus, he writes poetry.

Saturday night, I went to a margarita party at 210. She gave the card to the bus driver. She had beer and we did shots of gin. She is disgusting both sober and drunk. She said I was too skinny. She said that it hurt and that she bled. She told him that she treats sex as recreation. So, I spent a major part of the night sitting outside in her car.

1991

That really wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The day after tomorrow I may be going to Florida. The girl has never gone to the gyno for fear that something is wrong with her. Then he went to sleep and I went back out to the party. Then we went to his car to do more shots. They went into the bathroom. They were sitting around on the sinks. They were watching The Princess Bride, so we stayed. Thursday morning at 6:30 I was awakened by the sound of someone tapping on my window. Tonight was the homecoming skit. Tuesday, he called and told me that he got the hint and that he won’t be bothering me anymore. Two of them went inside, two more got out, and I leaned over and puked out the side of the car. Two Wednesday nights ago we went to Galleria to see his band.

1991

We all decided to go to Sanibel Island to drink. We did a midnight run for milk and Oreos and then sat around talking. We just sat there and made small talk. We really need to talk. We went over to 210 to hang out so he could carve a pumpkin. We went to Club Vogue last night, and I got kicked out for drinking. We went to Katy Station and then we came back here to watch My Left Foot. We went to Mister Donut for donuts and coffee, and then we headed back to the complex. We were all on the couch again. Wednesday night, the US went to war against Iraq. When we got there, I went to the bathroom. When we got to the apartment, they were smoking a joint. Whore.

1991

An explanation of my alphabetical journal is here. Below the line is from April 4, 1990 to August 9, 1990 with names (and whores!) removed. 

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A man is singing. Afterwards, we bought doughnuts and then went back to eat and sleep. Afterwards, we came back to my room, rented a VCR, and watched “Stand by Me.” Afterwards, we filled his fire extinguisher with water. Another thing is that I always gain weight at school because I don’t work out and I drink every once in a while. At one point, he went into the kitchen to make popcorn. At this point, the good outweighs the bad.

Bad News: My rent is now $150 instead of $100.

Do you understand what I’m saying?

Everyone might help out for a few days, but eventually they will sink back into the rut and continue to use plastic bags and Styrofoam containers.

For lunch I’m having strawberries, an oat bran bagel, and skim milk. Four weeks ago today they had intercourse, and things are still comfortable between them. Friday night we went to his house to drink beer, tie-dye, and watch “Evil Dead, pt. 2.” Fucker.

Girl, you know it’s true. God, I am so sick of working here.

He accidentally broke my quartz over the weekend. He called me at 4:15am this morning and asked if he could come over. He cut his wrist with an X-Acto knife. He is sort of like a cross between Willie Nelson and Lou Reed. He never showed up. He told me that I get on his nerves and a lot of things I do are irritating. He told me that I’m too nice to him. He was all drunk and cut up from running around in the woods. His brother is an asshole. Hopefully the mosquitos won’t be too bad.

I am an annoying stranger. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I drank two and shot-gunned one. I feel like I’m really in control. I feel like I’ve really screwed up. I hate him. I hate it. I hate myself for saying that. I hate this!!! I hate this. I have no money. I have no regrets. I’m sitting in a van in a parking lot in Springfield. It was awful. It was nice. It was really nice. It’s 9:40 and nothing is going on, so we’re all just sitting around on the couches at the Chez. It’s something that has to be done eventually, and I think I’m ready.

Last night we did laundry together. Last night when we were at the Blue Note, I started wondering about something, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. Less than five minutes later, she was drinking and smoking again. Luckily, she was drunk, so she won’t remember what she saw.

My car died for good last night. My purse was stolen Thursday night while I was playing piano for the high school choir concert.

Not a lot has happened.

Right? Right. Rose quartz is supposed to help you give and receive love more freely. Rumor has it that she has a disease, so he should keep his distance.

Saturday night we went to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Avalon. She backed out of the apartment. She knew what was going on. Stop.

The most entertaining part of the evening was when a girl in a bikini top and a tight miniskirt puked all over herself and slung it everywhere. The only problem is that I’m on the rag. The plan is to get down to 115 pounds. The Thursday night after I shaved my head, we went for a walk. They sent me a heart shaped crystal box. Thursday night I’m going to see Chick Corea. Today was my birthday. Tonight we’re going to race go-carts and rent movies. Two weeks from tomorrow I’ll be twenty years old.

Wait. We ate, drank some wine, and then smoked some pot. We drank some beer beforehand and afterwards. We sat under a tree on a blanket. We walked to the columns, and then we went to look at the babies at University Hospital. We went out to Pinn4cles, built a fire, and drank two cases of beer. We went to a store so he could get cigarettes. We were worried about him all night, and then we found him passed out. What a life! What a mess! What a weekend! What an asshole. When we got there, all of the lights were out. While we were at Denny’s, we discussed where the clitoris is. Wish me luck!

Yesterday was Earth Day. Yesterday we went to the art museum and to the planetarium. You mean a lot to me, mean a lot to me, a lot to me, to me, me.

Sheila Heti wrote in a journal for over a decade, uploaded it into Excel, sorted the sentences alphabetically, and released Alphabetical Diaries. I’m reading it right now and loving how you can get to know someone even when there is a complete lack of order. (Speaking of lack of order, do we need to talk about all the shit that’s happening in the world?! (We don’t. Not today.))

I’ve been writing in a journal since I was 11, but the only notebook that still exists (because I had a book burning!) is the one that goes from February 16, 1990 to March 17, 1991. The journal is absolutely horrible. I was absolutely horrible. (I used the word Whore a lot.)

Earlier this week I went through the first 52 pages of that journal, typed the sentences that couldn’t be used to identify anyone(!!!), and alphabetized them. AND that’s what falls below the horizontal line (along with some photos from the past several months, because photos add color, especially if they aren’t black and white). Enjoy hanging out with 19-year-old me.

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Afterwards we went back to our hotel room. All I can do is watch it happen. Although I never did the duty, I’m honored to have been chosen. At one point we got out the Ouija board. At one point, it got really quiet.

But there was no way I was going to go with these feelings, so I got comfortable and slept. But, instead of stopping, I kept going. But there’s a problem.

Does it sound like I’m trying to talk myself into something?!

Especially since I am almost 20 years old.

He said, “I think people feel uncomfortable around me because I was in a psych ward.” Help. His cheeks get really red when he’s cold.

I better stop now. I can deal with him, but not for very long periods of time. I fell asleep on the chair. I find it hard to look at him because he always seems to have crusty things on his mouth. I found this out the hard way. I got my highest score ever! I have no goals. I shaved my head. I tried again right away and got through. I watched a movie today called When Harry Met Sally.

I’ll never forget Fred and Ginger. I’m home for spring break until next Sunday. I’m tired.  If love has got you down, then love can get you right back up! It’s a formal party.

Kodo is a Japanese percussion ensemble.

Last night I got drunk at the doghouse. Last night I saw Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Let’s go to the hospital and look at the babies.

Nothing looks right, and I feel really stupid.

Please burn my pictures and any other things that remind you of me. Pretty soon, I acted like I had fallen asleep.

She tells me that it’s for me, and that it’s a man. She was high, and he was drunk. So, we’re supposed to get together and talk sometime today. Sort of strange, but in a good way.

Thank you for the purple cow. The line was busy. The whole drug dealing thing turns me off. Then we all laid around on the floor. They were all sleeping on the floor, so we had two beds for the four of us.

We all started talking, and I mentioned that I need a bed. We go to the park by the zoo and sit on a big blanket. We must have gotten a bad batch, so we didn’t have a very good time. We were drinking Kool-Aid and Everclear. We’re not going to do anything that costs money, because neither of us has any. Well, that’s bullshit.

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Next up, pages 53-112.
Maybe with more Whore!

1. I didn’t really have an embryonic parasite attached to my gallbladder, nor did I go to a slipshod surgical center to have my gallbladder removed with a plastic straw and a shop vac. I didn’t walk away from my surgery carrying a detestable gallbladder sucker baby named Leo who rides around in my glove box. I apologize for any confusion I may have caused.

2. Did I maybe sever my eardrum with a Q-tip Saturday and then immediately poke myself in the eye with a mascara wand? Wait. I’m sorry. What did you say? I can’t see you!

Fluid Pudding. I Can No Longer Perform Self-Care.
2024, Mixed Media, Private Collection, Saint Louis.

(Bonus! Last night I chopped jalapeños, rubbed my eyes, and Mr. Magoo’d around the house for 30 minutes.)

3. I watched the entire “One Day” series on Netflix last week before realizing that I had read the (not great) book in 2009 and also watched the (horrible, but only because I think Anne Hathaway is despicable, and please don’t make me tell you why) movie in 2011. Ah, but my hand still shot up to my mouth as I whispered, “What the fuck?!” during the penultimate episode as if I didn’t know what was about to happen. (Because I didn’t!) If a musical based on the book/movie/series hits the stage in 2035, I will probably buy a ticket having no idea that I am very much familiar with the story. I’m out in left field, and we’ve no money for butter.

4. I don’t normally make book recommendations, but I recently finished Beautyland, and I loved it. You’ll have to trust me on this, because when I tell you that it’s about an alien girl who reports on the human race to her alien family using a fax machine that her Earth mother found in the neighbor’s trash, I know at least five of you will be like, “Yeah. No.” BUT, the book was written by Marie-Helene Bertino (one of my favorite writers), and she uses words the way I wish I could use words, and to give you a taste of that, here are a few of the (many) sentences I underlined while reading:

“You can never look bad when you’re doing something for yourself.” Adina immediately thinks of exceptions. Murder. Incest. Murdering someone on your way to commit incest.

To express appreciation, human beings hit their hands together. The more they appreciate it, the harder and longer they hit.

Mother’s sound is, Don’t start, you don’t even wear the ones you have, I could make that for half the price, anyway, it’s ugly as sin. Daughter’s sound is, Chicken again?

5. I went to a Subtronics show last month and it was crowded (!) and loud (!) and I loved it so much—mainly because I’m old, so experiencing something unlike anything I’ve experienced before is rare. This video shows one of the more mellow concert moments. (The less mellow moments might induce a seizure, and I don’t feel like posting a disclaimer, so you get what you get.)

The crowd was encouraged to jump, but my legs tend to break. Instead of taking the risk, I spent the entire evening shaking my head up and down (YESYESYES) and back and forth (NONONO) with a smile on my face that made my cheeks hurt for days. (I’m not much of a smiler. I guess I could work on that, but not smiling has gotten me this far, so I think I’m good.)

6. Supposedly, today is National Funeral Director and Mortician Recognition Day. You know what that means.

This will catch you up: Last August I had an ache in my stomach (I don’t like the looks of the word stomachache) that I couldn’t fix. The nurse practitioner said, “It’s reflux.” I said, “It doesn’t feel like reflux.” She said, “Here. Take these reflux pills. In fact, take them for several months.” After four months I stopped taking them and went back to the office. I said, “I’m sort of wondering if this is a gallbladder thing.” Two weeks ago the nurse practitioner ordered an ultrasound and it showed my gallbladder acting all thick-headed and stoned. Ten days ago I met with a surgeon who five days ago (1/26) gifted me with a King of Pop nap right before he sucked my gallbladder out through my belly button (Billy Pancake for those who remember). My scars are gross and I’m sore and cranky and it’s all so boring, so let’s post a photo that shows the location of my scars (do NOT look under that tongue!), and then talk about how things could have been different.

During the months of August, September, October, November, and December, I spent quite a bit of time lying on my back in the dark and thinking about what might be happening beneath my skin. (I don’t sleep well.) Obviously (obviously!), most of the scenes I pictured ended in my demise.

Here are a few things that I imagined were happening somewhere in my abdominal region:
Intestinal obstruction which will surely lead to sudden gastrointestinal death. (Apparently it happens a lot in Tunisia. I’ve never been, but I’ve also never taken a 23andMe test.)

Gastric Dilatation-Volvulus (GDV), which is that thing that happens to Great Danes when their stomachs flip and cut off blood flow to the pancreas, leading to the release of toxic hormones that immediately stop the heart. (The doctor who did my most recent colonoscopy told me that maneuvering his way through my intestines reminded him of driving on mountain switchbacks. That can’t be good.)

Stage 4 Cancer of Something Deep Inside, the diagnosis of which leads to my mailbox filling with recruitment materials from terrorist organizations and suddenly I’m making very poor decisions that involve trading lots of dollars for a suicide bomber jacket.

And my favorite:
Unbeknownst to me, an embryo somehow escaped from my uterus many years ago (not unlike a cow who refuses to take a ride to the abattoir!) and has been living parasitically off of my gallbladder for decades. Although tiny, he is also very fat due to a daffy duct feeding him the lipids that the gallbladder can’t break down. Because of a health insurance glitch, I have to take it upon myself to get some sort of imaging done to figure out what’s going on. An MRI is a very expensive test, so I find the cheapest option that still seems kind of on the up and up.

“A fetal fuel filter?!” I cry as I attempt to go from lying on the floor to standing without looking too herky-jerky. (These bargain MRI joints rarely have sliding beds for the scans (the floors are mostly clean, though), and instead of operating MRI machines, the employees simply look you over while wearing swim goggles. No masks, gloves, or Merck Manuals in sight, but you really can’t beat the price. Two stars.)

Ace: Yep. A fetal fuel filter, also known in medical circles as a gallbladder sucker baby. Have a seat on that milk crate over there and I’ll draw a picture of your GSB so you can show your family what’s going on.

I sat down on the crate and watched Ace as he pulled a Sharpie from his back pocket and proceeded to draw a terrifying image on the back of a Jimmy John’s menu.

Ace: Cute little fella, right?

Me: Fella?

Ace: The fugitive fetal fuel filters, also known in medical circles as gallbladder sucker babies? Always boys. 100%.

Me (suddenly feeling very protective of my GSB): I think I’ll name him Galileo. Leo for short. And now that I’ve named him, I think I love him. So, what’s the next step?

Ace: Well, there’s more than one answer to that question, pointing you in a crooked line. But if you’ve got a minute, I can get Todd in here to suck out your GSB. He’ll have you back on the road in about an hour.

Fast forward through the next 45 minutes during which I met Todd (he had a beard down to his knee), who gave me a (mostly clean, like the floor) sock (to bite for the pain, like they did during the Civil War when medical supplies ran low) before MacGyvering a plastic straw (not a turtle lover, that Todd) to a shop vac, jamming it into my belly button (Billy Pancake for those who remember), and removing Galileo (and my fritzed gallbladder!).

Todd: You can get up off the floor whenever you’re ready, and if you need a Band-Aid they’re over there in the cabinet. First one’s on the house. Give me five minutes to free the GSB from his host. Grab a doughnut if you’re hungry.

Five minutes later I heard a piercing cry coming my fugitive fetal fuel filter (also known in medical circles as my gallbladder sucker baby).

Todd: Done! As soon as you finish up that long john, you can take the little guy home. They don’t make car seats for GSBs, so just stick him in the glove box.

You guys.
Meet Leo.
(2021-D Lincoln shield penny added for scale)

He’s featherbrained, unambitious, tiny (yet huge!), and I’m beginning to dislike him already.