Forget Living at an Airport. I’m going to live at Dartmouth

Haley had an appointment and then we had to wait half an hour for another doctor to tell us what to do next, so we wandered around trying to get lost. We saw a crazy room without a floor, beach chairs no one is supposed to sit in because they’re part of the art, and after taking an elevator ride to every floor we might have ended up in the morgue because there were extra gurnies lined up against a wall and it smelled like DEATH.  We stepped back into the elevator and left quickly.
We agreed that it would be a great place to film a season of Survivor, with the different lobbies being different islands. However, having a bank, hair salon, laser surgery office, and 23 restaurants probably wouldn’t make it a matter of surviving anything except boredom. So maybe LOST. Because being shipwrecked there and wandering the same hallways over and over again would lead anyone to insanity and murder.
The funniest part of it was that when we were leaving and I had taken the doctor’s card with his number and a way to set up the next appointment, Haley burst out laughing. She said the doctor was checking me out the whole time. Which I guess he was. I was trying not to notice. What is it about me that makes me so intimidating to most women, unless they get to know me, and so attractive to men? It must have something to do with pheromones and going off the pill. I’m like a big old pheromone target.  I’m going to start wearing a hooded cape.

I’m sick today. 

Not good.  I wanted to drink some wine and hang out and read but instead I feel like falling over.    Next time I’ll be talking about a boy and his blob.  I’m writing that here so that I remember, because my head feels like it’s full of fluff.


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