Christina Herald's Journal Entries for June 13 to June 18, 1997


(Being as the first one accidentally fell in the sink while I was doing dishes...the handiwork of the enigmatic Bill The Ghost??)

June 13, 1997

I have decided to christen my resident ghost as Bill. It seems an opportune day to do this, as it is Friday the 13th. Maybe I should call him, away, away with that thought! But Bill seems to be settling down since I've started talking to him. I don't know why, maybe it's just in my head, but it makes me feel better to think that I'm doing something. It's probably just an old house, but I will continue to talk to Bill so long as it is comforting and/or amusing for me to do so. At least now I have something to blame when I lose my car keys.

June 14, 1997

What is it with these kids, anyway? Can they probe no deeper into this play than the time it takes to read a Cliff's Notes booklet? This is perhaps the magnum opus of William Shakespeare, and all they can come up with is "Yeah, d-uhhhh, like, the storm symbolizes the fact that King Lear is going off his rocker, and stuff. Like, the storm is the storm in his head, dude..." They would have been better served to roll the pages of the book up with their joints. Damn, this is depression. I'm halfway through. Maybe it will get better. I can see why Carmichael didn't want to do this, though. I think he's probably watching MTV or something right about now. No soaps on the weekends. At this point, Old Goat, I don't care if Erica gives the baby back! Grade the substandard papers of your little surfer duuuude charges your own damn self! Nope, that's what a graduate assistant is for. Wait until next semester, when he doesn't have me to push around all the time. I'll be a working girl, taking classes for my masters in the evenings and stuff, so nyah! Free, free, I'm free! Nah, he'll still nag me into doing something or other, I'm sure.

The papers aren't getting any better. Called Bessa and complained. She said that I shouldn't take it so personally. I told her that every one of her Victorian Lit students were so in awe of her that they wouldn't dare turn in anything so horrible so she didn't know how much this sucked. She said that she did, and we had a lively debate about that one. She's got a date tonight. I don't know this guy. Hope it goes well, I guess.

The papers still suck. I'm almost done, though my tolerance is getting lower, as can be evinced by my intermittent bouts of journal-whining. Mal called and told me to ditch the papers and spend the afternoon with him. I told him that I couldn't, since I have to bring them by Carmichael's on the way to see Anders tonight. He sulked. I shrugged it off.

June 15, 1997

What a night! I got no sleep, but I had a really, really fucking good time! We went out to Flanigan's over in Berkeley, and I had the rare honor of seeing Anders all soused up, his wig askew, singing "I Will Survive" accompanied by Celtic folk musicians! Phillip is a trouper, is all I can say. He lead Anders home early, with Anders waving his arms about and yelling this and that about how great the Irish were. I ran into Andrew Fraiser, the stud puppy from down the hall at Bay Heights High. He's fascinating! Good looking, intelligent, thoughtful. Normal. Normal, normal, normal! Normal is good. We talked till seven in the morning at Selene's Diner, eating eggs and drinking coffee. He likes the same things I do, most of the time: jazz and blues music, coffee (I am beginning to appreciate decaf, I missed the taste of the stuff), animals, literature, and lots of other things. I remember where I know him from now! When I was fifteen or so, I was into this Medieval Rec group for awhile, and Andrew was in it at around the same time. He was one of the guys in kilts waving claymores made of rattan and duct tape. It was funny. We did some reminiscing, and the who's where now kind of thing.

June 16, 1997

No one's seen Eliza in a couple of days. I'm getting worried. It's not like her not to call or something every so often.

We had dinner at Dad's tonight. "We" being Malcolm, me, Jonny, and Greg. I know that sounds like a deadly combination, but it was all right, really it was. Dad grilled out, and the steaks were amazing. Dad goes to this butcher in Laurel Village that sells prime graded steaks at incredible prices. Even Malcolm, who is usually a vegetarian, had to admit they were damned good. Dad really liked Mal, but I think he liked Greg even more. Or maybe he was just trying to be really accepting. I don't know but it's almost impossible not to like Greg anyway. I was just really happy for Jonny. Sitting at the outside table between dad and Greg, looking so happy and relaxed--stress free. It did me good to see him so at peace. I was so worried about him.

June 17, 1997

Bessa hated the guy she went out with. Turned out it was a blind date sort of thing, and it didn't go well. She's depressed because she can't find a man. I told her that having one was a mixed blessing.

Actually, Malcolm is being wonderful. Now that things have all all calmed down, it's just nice and relaxed. Sometimes I think that some of his ideas are rather primitive, like his whole "Hold the door open and pay for everything and wee wifey stays home to raise the kids" sort of mentality. 1950s all the way. The upside is that he's really chivalrous and well mannered. Well, we'll see. I don't know if it will last. It may. Sometimes it has real possibilities. But aside from creating new identities for himself, he really doesn't have much imagination. What he does have is dependability. I trust him not to do anything like screw around, I know he'll show up on time and rub my back if I don't feel good. Is the tradeoff worth it? Depends on who you are...

June 18, 1997

I haven't had a panic attack in almost two weeks. Hurray for me! I wonder if this means I can have my coffee back.

I have to wonder sometimes if I'm not wasting the doctor's time. I mean, he's great to talk to and everything, but lately it's all been pretty trivial shit that I've been babbling about in my sessions. I'm treating him like one of my buddies rather than a medical professional, and I don't know if that's a mistake or not. Certainly it's not like I can't handle what's going on in my life without him. But it does help, just to be able to vent to somebody who is completely impartial. Poor Doc, though. He seems kind of lonely, sometimes. Maybe I'm imagining things.

If that damn cat eats one more of my plants, I'm going to put his tail in the pencil sharpener! This time it was my brand-new fern, a big beautiful green thing that Gavin brought me earlier in the week when he was passing through town. But then the little shit just looks up at me and purrs and I can't stay mad at him. Sigh. I'm a sucker, I guess.

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