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June 9, 2008
seven hours to go
In one obvious sense, I feel bad for saying that my mentally ill sister is driving me crazy. But that's a recessive gene. Mostly, I feel truly sorry for myself. The acoustic assault is unrelenting. She requires no participation on my part. She just winds herself up and vroom, off to the races. From the moment my door opens in the morning, I'm bombarded with minutiae about people I do not know. I hear about their flaws and her grievances against them. This is my sister's sole hobby nowadays: she confidently diagnoses other people's addictions and/or psychoses. I can't wait to hear mine.
The nearby casino is a godsend. There, I can read a book at the bar while she pinpoints the dealer as a manic-depressive who is trying to screw her over. Yesterday we went there for the fourth time during this visit, and we stayed for six hours. Every hour there was an hour I wasn't with her alone, so I got increasingly giddy. I told the bartender, who had been giving me an endless supply of Diet Cokes all weekend, about my scheme.
Her eyes flashed with recognition, then she laughed. During her smoke breaks all weekend, the dealers had been complaining about a particularly loud, obnoxious player who was driving them insane with weird pronouncements and an unremitting droning about herself. And oh yes, she was visiting her brother this weekend.
The poor dealers. Now I'm feeling guilty again.
Ah. There. It passed again.
posted by john at 9:01 AM • permalink