June 9, 1999.

This morning I decided to be silly:

"You know what I found at home? A copy of Laughingstock. I must have bought it and then forgotten."
"No, Amoret, that's my copy, the one I lent you."
"Oh no. I must have acquired it legally somewhere and forgotten."
"No, Amoret, that's my copy."
"I'm a little concerned that you automatically assume that all copies of Laughingstock are yours. Can't anyone else own it in your little dictatorship?"
(sigh) "That's my copy."

I can't explain why I find certain things funny, I really can't. Lately I seem to have regressed to a 1st grade humour level (perhaps to match my rash). My chief delight is in annoying others. My chief method is speaking implausibilities. I'll stick my finger in the Boy's ear and pretend I can't hear him when he tries to talk. It makes me laugh.

I suppose this means senile dementia is travelling a quicker route with me than with the rest of humanity.

I got my TB test today. I'm equally grossed and freaked out by the whole experience. I find the little white patch of raised skin disgusting, and the possibility that I might have TB just scary. No, I don't show any of the warning signs. I'm just taking the test to satisfy employment requirements at over-achiever camp.

But it would be just like me to come out of 8 months on Romantic literature with tuberculosis. I'm the girl who came back from the UK with a sunburn. I'm the girl who pissed off a non-profit medieval drama society. Anything's possible.

I also got my rash checked out while I was in the doctor's office. She had no diagnosis for me, but I wasn't that let down. A diagnoser is only as good as her information, and I have no idea what special thing I did two nights ago to warrant this yukkiness. At least it's going down and I can feel less sorry for myself. I felt immensely sorry for myself yesterday, mostly because I had to bear the burden of pity alone. When the Boy came over, we shared pity duties and my load was lightened considerably. And now I barely feel mopey at all.

Well, about the rash.

In 5 days the Boy and I will hopefully celebrate our first anniversary. I say 'hopefully' because he had no idea it was upcoming until I reminded him this morning. I hope his memory can hold over 5 days, but I have my doubts. This morning he put on my contact lenses by mistake. You can't trust a man like that with sensitive information...but you can't stay mad at him either.

Eh. Why be mad? I'd rather feel cherished than get one meaningless rose every June 14th. Although a meaningful rose would be appreciated.

I have no idea why I'm hinting; he never reads this page anyway. Foolishness, as Q would say.

It doesn't feel like a year. I suppose that's the point.