tuesday september 25 2001    |    6:50 p.m.

i just wrote this in an e-mail to her after days of apocalyptic visions involving crop-duster planes. and now i feel like writing it in here:

when my dad was at the hospital, one day my mom told me that she overheard this old cuban lady say to another patient something like "i knew i was sick but the last thing i wanted to do was come to the hospital for poking and prodding. so i figured, well, if i have to die, i might as well go out drunk, on the beach. and that's where they found me."

that's basically the way i feel right now.