Tag Archives: a.d.d.

The Last Day of My Life at Bar Happiness

If at the end of your life, you were given the option to live one day out of your life over again, just one day, just for the next 24 hours, what day would you choose?

Who would you spend your last day with?

More importantly, how do i come up with these questions, and why do i try?

We were eating at California Pizza Kitchen, one of my favorite places (even though today they put bacon on my veggie pizza and brought me the Seasonal Sam Adams instead of the Draft) when my mind drifted to when we ate pizza in Florence.

Next my mind drifted to when we visited Lago di Garda in northern Italy.

And I then asked myself
How do I work this?
And I then asked myself
Where is that large automobile?
And I then told myself
This is not my beautiful house!
And I then told myself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Sorry, mind drifted again.

(Letting the days go by… Water flowing under-)

And I thought,

Same as it ever was.

j/k ok sorry, i thought, i would love to live that day over again.

The day we spent at Lake Garda.

Bar Happiness
Happiness Bar at Lago Di Garda where you can literally drink up happiness.

So naturally i asked my husband the question at the onset of this post: what day would you live over?

His answer didn’t shock me but it was a wake up call.

“I would choose the day my mom told us she was expecting my brother.”

Aww! How sweet, right? Wait. There’s more.

“Because everyone was there. My brother, in my mom’s womb, my sister, my dad and my mom.”

Everyone was there.

As in- everyone that matters?

Everyone you would want to spend more time with?

Everyone who isn’t your wife (aka- ME)?!?

Wait- there’s more.

“I was going to say our wedding day but my sister wasn’t there.”

I wish i was making this up.

But it’s practically verbatim.

Then of course i proceeded to get all teary-eyed, after which his usual reaction of having no idea what’s going on with me- the “did I say something” script.

I tried not to dwell on it and changed the topic to pizza.

Then he asked me the same question.

“What day would you choose?”

I was embarrassed of my initial choice.

I ransacked my memories for alternates.

I came up with a couple other memories i could do over.

Both with him in them.

“It’s not important,” i said, dipping my pizza crust in ketchup.

He insisted to the point that i figured he must be thinking i must be thinking of some other guy, all the while i was really thinking, ‘don’t let him know you love him more than he loves you, don’t let him know you love him more than he loves you.’

I had to come up with a better answer fast.

“You know, i haven’t really thought about it. Rather, i need to give the answer more thought.”

So now i’m thinking, whatever day i would want to live over- i probably haven’t lived it yet.

Cause if all my favorite memories are post-marriage, and yet my marriage-mate essentially does not see me as part of “everybody,” then perhaps i’ve overrated my life thus far.

Maybe, if God gave me the choice, i’d just say, “uh, thanks, just shut me in a cell with an ocean view instead. That way no one has to spend any more time with me.”

Italian Audi
Or maybe i’d just ask God to please let me drive around Lake Garda in an Italian sports car listening to The Talking Heads.

Because if i’m not “everybody,” then I must be some form of opposite of that.

Perhaps, “nobody.”

At least not anybody important.

The good thing now is, i’ve got two cats that really look up to me.

Sure, i’ve had more suicidal thoughts in the last couple weeks than i did in the last 6+ months, but it’s hard to leave or kill yourself when that would disturb your cats’ daily rituals.

Also, i’m not sure my alter-ego would be able to update this blog as well as i do.

TBH, she’s kind of neurotic.


Becoming a Worser Writer

Have you noticed my writing has actually gotten worse over the months?

I was feeling vain and went back to read some of my old posts and I notice I really have trouble getting through the more recent ones without skipping whole sentences.

The older posts are far wittier and engaging!

What is happening?

To me?

You see what I mean?

I have trouble typing meaningful sentences.

I did hit my head back in July and have had periodic headaches on that same spot since.

When I looked up where the damage was, it turned out I damaged the part of my brain that interprets speech.


Leave it to me to damage the one part of my brain I was relying on to make a living.

It’s called Wernicke’s Area.

I think I can still be an interpreter as long as I rebuild the word bridges between the neurons that were there before the accident.

Besides, I would blank out while interpreting since before the accident, so I can’t blame my shortcoming entirely on that.

What happened was that I asked my husband to move something heavy and he said it would take him an hour and a half to come to where I was, so he basically said to just move it myself.

Then my friend was helping me move it but I didn’t lift it on my end as fast as she did so since it was heavy, she let go of it and it hit me on the head.

This is only one of many ouwie-a-la-tĂȘte.

The first one was when I was 3 or 4; I rolled off my bed and hit the back of my head on the metal handles of my dresser.

The truth is I can hardly recall anything prior to that moment.

In elementary school, absorbed in thought, I crossed a tether-ball’s trajectory.

Then a basketball’s.

I wish I had gone to the nurse or something; my head really hurt on both occasions, but back then I was always going to the nurse to get out of class.

There’s only so many sick excuses you can use up in a school year without the admin bringing your parents into the picture.

On top of these, I have very bad spatial perception.

I hit my head quite frequently on cupboards, car frames, doors which I am in the process of opening, etc.

Lately I have had dizzy spells too.

Today I’ve had three.

I don’t know what’s going on with me.

Why I’m such a boring writer all of a sudden.

Or maybe it’s my life that’s more boring?

Or is it me? Am I boring?

What does a person do when they find themselves boring?

It’s not like you can just ditch yourself and go into a more interesting person.


I’m stuck with me.

Somebody help!

I Think I’m Depressed

I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I was depressed as a side effect of my ADHD for so many years.
Then I learned how to manage it better.

There’s always a choice factor.
What to do, what to do…
Something positive, something destructive…?
Being positive is more fun but after a while you realize, or rather, I realize -I forget I’m the one who gets distracted, not you, necessarily, unless I’m boring you, which I think is safe to assume I probably am, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt- I realize that either way, happy, angry or sad, the fundamental problems persist.

I hate it when people aren’t straight up with me so I will try to be straight up with my reader.

It is wearing being tied to someone who basically has very little time for you.
A lot of people think I have so many advantages over them because I read a lot, use technology more, because I was born in the U.S., because my husband has a steady job.

I have no one to talk to when I’ve had a hard day.
Except my cats.
Sure I have a lot of friends but I’m not particularly close to any of them.
Not to the point where they’d support me if I ever needed a place to spend the night.
Of course not.
Why would I need a place to sleep?
I have a hard working husband and my parents are still alive.

It’s like I’m isolated on so many levels but none of them tangible.

How do I get support for things no one can see?

Have you ever tried to sort a Rubik’s Cube and all the little squares fall out?
It happens to me.
Every single time.
Since I was 8.
I feel like one of those Rubik’s Cubes I broke.
Waiting for someone to either come and fix me or throw me away.
Some quasi-genius child trying to get into classes for gifted white kids from Santa Barbara even though she has a free life pass.
Whatever happened to her?
Oh wait, that was me.

The question lingers…
Am I depressed?
Am I suicidal?
Am I fully functional?
Yes, no, and yes.
Am I lying to myself?

Stanley the stapler is my BFF.

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The Unfinishable Stories

Not to be confused with the Never-Ending Story stories.

The protagonist covered herself with a warm fuzzy blanket in the middle of the night, typing away what was surely to be the next greatest masterpiece- the Tesla of modern literature- the Burj Khalifa tower of novels- the Surface3 tablet of plot developments…

when she suddenly realized she had gone too far with the similes.

She put her phone under her pillow and stared off into the black roof.

It had been months since she had been inexplicably drained of any sort of inspiration.

Some nights, such as to-night, it would come in a sudden burst and she was certain this tall brick wall in her imagination-boot-camp would be conquered, she would rise above it, stand on the edge with her hands resting on her waist, look back at all the crumpled pieces of ripped notebook paper and laugh haughtily while the dawn of a new day broke in the horizon.

“I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!”

"I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!"
“I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!”

But before she knew it she would be fast asleep dreaming of a hurricane passing through her living room, worried sick whether she had left enough food at the cat-shelter. In New Zealand.

And so the unfinishable story remained unfinished.

She never let that get her down, though.

The next night, she would put that sour experience behind her and start a new unfinishable story.