April 19, 1999.

Interesting day. I've decided to fill my hours with long walks, as the transit workers are on strike and I can only spend so many hours reading and surfing aimlessly before I go utterly bugfuck. Today's journey took me to a mall, to the Saints' house, to a grocery store and back home. Elapsed time: three hours. And even though my feet hurt at the end of it, there's a certain satisfaction in climbing the last riser clutching a brimming plastic bag and an umbrella with no handle.

I'm so tough, n'est-ce pas?

The other thing about today involves some strange and tragic news. It seems that in the last few days my grandfather's sister died of emphysema and her husband decided to follow her. Via a shotgun in the basement. He took the time to call one - only one out of his multiple children - to reveal his plan and assure him that the side door would be left open. Then he checked out.

Imagine being that child, hearing your elderly father calmly bid you goodbye. Imagine not being that child, and wondering for the rest of your life why your father didn't trust you enough with the responsibility.

As far as I'm concerned, there are only two respectful ways to act on the evening one hears of a death in the family. The first is to give way to grief, either privately with a bottle/bible or publicly with a loved one. This option is closed to me, as I cannot recall any recent meeting with either of them. She was trapped in her house - emphysema, remember? - but they used to send me $20 and a card every Christmas until last year. My grandmother was the courier, and she would hand it over with the mild imperative to write a thank you note. I was always absurdly touched by this gift...that they would remember me through 2 removals in family and past my teens. Maybe they remember me as a baby. I'm told I was awfully adorable.

But you can see how I lack the appropriate memories for tears. Which leaves the second method: defiance of death through mindless celebration. Drinking, dancing and sex. Preferably all three. But I think I'll just stick to the dancing, as the Boy's out of town and I've spent too much on alcohol this week.

It doesn't seem like enough. But I don't know what else to do.