not dead yet

I've just experienced my last day in Los Angeles for the summer. This trip has been really grounding and good for my mental health - almost purely family time, quiet time, bagel time, and physical space as medicine for the daily trials. This last day, however, has been plagued by physical and mental torture. The morning began with my new apartment building backing out of giving us a place to stay for September 1st - four days prior to moving. The process of procuring and negotiating this apartment has been a real nightmare of being caught between liars versus liars for the past month, only to completely implode at the near-last second. I have affirmed in my mind that real estate is truly one of the most fucked up things about New York - may I never deal with it again.

After eating some insanity breakfast, it was comparatively soothing to go to the orthodontist, where my crumbling permanent retainer was yanked out of my mouth, the old glue painfully ground off, and a new retainer glued in. Afterwards, I donated some Missy's old lady diapers to the animal shelter (I bought them but she never wore them) even though I don't believe that any animal in the shelter lives long enough to need to wear them.

In the afternoon, my mom gave me a flu shot that hurt more than I'm used to and when she withdrew the needle I bled mightily down the arm, an actual stream flowing downwards and pooling in the crook of my elbow. My mom screamed, "Aaaaah!! aaaaaahh!! ARE YOU ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO BLEEDS TOO MUCH?!" and my dad was unhappy and ranted about how she didn't do it right and I couldn't stop laughing because it was so shocking and so fucked up. The way it spewed out was as if the head-bursting blood pressure from all my morning rage had finally found its exit. Later Ma came to me and said, "I'm very sorry. You probably won't die."

The evening became quieter. Ma, Pa and I went to Souplantation, where I ate all the favorite soups, salads, and carbs that I've been eating my entire life. On the drive home Ma was trying to come up with a Chinese name for baby Char. Every name she came up with we could turn into a joke by interpreting it as its homonym or changing the tone of one word slightly. You mean Bowl? Little Fish? Oh, Summer Shirt? Ma came up with a new one and tried to translate it for me. 

Ma: It means "prostate."

Me: PROSTATE?

Ma: Yes. Prostate. 

Me: Are you sure?

Ma: No..."prostitute"

Me: WHAT

Ma: No... ..."protest?"

Ma has traditionally rhymed my Chinese name with Fat Pig, but Pa came up with a new one for me today - Scarf.