The Millay Diary


Days 16 and 17

Dear Diary,

It’s a good thing doctors are always saving lives because no one would tolerate them if they did anything else, I mean can you imagine if a doctor had that attitude and handwriting at any other job on the planet? If a waiter behaved the way doctors do people would send him back instead of the food and every meal would practically be free because no one could make out the checks and I’m pretty sure if you can’t read the total you don’t have to pay it, that’s my MO anyway and I eat at T.G.I.Friday’s Casual Dining Restaurant & Bar every single Friday, obviously. Sounds like a good way to get fired if you ask me. Anywho you can probably tell I am steamed with a capital M-D after my run-in at the hospital yesterday afternoon. I drove myself there as soon as I woke up at 11:30 and demanded to be tested for Lyme Disease pronto but they made me wait pretty much all day even after I showed the lady the Ziploc baggy with the two ticks inside, I mean how much more serious could this be? Those guys were clamped onto my body!!!! Sucking my blood!!!!!!!!! Right by my junk!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There aren’t enough exclamation points in the world, Diary, but I guess it goes without writing that all urgency was lost on this little hospital, they probably haven’t seen an emergency in so long that they don’t remember what one looks like. When they finally DID let me in at like 1:30 (if I could capitalize numbers I would, Diary), the doctor was so calm at first that it made me feel like a total dipstick. He said I was most likely fine especially since I’d shown up so soon after the bites, they’d run some tests, blah blah, but he wasn’t anywhere near as cool as a cucumber after I kept shaking that Ziploc bag in his face and screaming, THESE GUYS WERE ON MY BODY!!!!!!!! SUCKING MY BLOOD!!!!!!!! DO SOMETHING!!!!!!!!! In fact he snatched the bag from me and wouldn’t give it back until I “learned how to behave myself” and after the tests came back negative he said he was going to toss the bag which seems totally irresponsible to me, I mean tests are wrong all the time especially when they’re run by doctors and nurses like this who are about as competent as they are polite. So now if it turns out I have Lyme Disease we’ll never know what disease it is because the species of those ticks is a total mystery now. Thanks a lot Doc, don’t quit your day job OH WAIT QUIT YOUR DAY JOB BECAUSE YOU’RE AWFUL AT IT.

This brunch with death totally changed my perspective on things though, after chowing down with the Grim Reaper I realized that it’s like that song, you never know when you’re going to bite the bullet so you should totally seize the day and live like there’s no tomorrow and every second is precious because there might not be a tomorrow or even a later today so you should make the most of every moment like a crazy person who doesn’t understand that what he does now will totally affect him later. So as soon as I got back to Auschwitz I burst into the barn and ran up the stairs to Heather’s studio and interrupted her writing to ask her on a real live proper date, no more hitch-filled movie schemes or hikes that turn into therapy sessions, how would she like to spend the day with me in Great Barrington going to the bookstore, the ice cream store, and the pizza store (Gypsy Joynt)—a date known in at least one Evan-sized circle as a hat trick, or if the bookstore is super-warm and the ice cream is fried, a hot trick.

Well Diary I wish I could say she’d said yes, but it turns out Heather is like every other pretty girl I’ve ever made it to second base with—happy to use me for compliments and protection on hikes and “incidental” leg-touches (gimme the world’s biggest break, Diary!!) but when it comes time to make a real commitment like books and ice cream and pizza, it’s Sorry Evan, you’re a nice guy but you’re not really my type. I can’t wait to find out whose type I am, Diary, because that lady must be like one in a zillion. And I guess all that live-now crap turned out to be a bunch of crap because Heather shooting me down just made me feel like a big pile of crap. A lazier writer would try and make some sort of tick comparison here and say that Heather sucked me dry and left me for dead, but unless it turns out Heather gave me Lyme Disease too I don’t think that analogy really flies. Anyhow I tried not to make a scene after she rejected me but it was hard with all the screaming and crying and running out of there and falling down the stairs and everything. Lennon and Agnes seemed to get a real kick out of the whole thing but then again they’re about as sweet and sympathetic as doctors.

So my writing day was pretty much shot to pieces by then but I wasn’t going to let Heather ruin my hat/hot trick too so I drove to Great Barrington myself to enjoy an afternoon of stuffing my brain and my face, which would have been real nice if I hadn’t gotten bamboozled by the old lady behind the counter at the bookstore. I had grabbed this great Spirit comic to buy but when I got to the counter the wrinkly little swindler told me they had a credit card minimum even though I was using my DEBIT card. Gimme a break Diary, those two things aren’t the same thing at all and I’m not buying the sweet old lady act, I get enough of that from the homeless woman outside the Safeway back in Virginia who’s always wearing red and ringing that darn bell like a lunatic. Lucky for this bifocaled con artist I had already been eying an Alan Moore comic so I didn’t mind buying it too even though more books are the LAST thing I need. Books are like sweets, I can’t really say no, of course if books gave you cavities I’d have a mouth full of nothing. But if scruples or principles or repeat customers named Evan gave you cavities that withered hustler would have teeth like a Mentos model.

Speaking of sweets I got myself a nice little sundae at the ice cream store, it was triple scoop with one each of strawberry cheesecake, cookie dough, and Snickers plus some peanut butter sauce drizzled on top and snickerdoodles and marshmallows and more Snickers mixed in. It was okay but I was still pretty grungry after so I went to Gypsy Joynt and got a few slices of pizza and guess what was on it, Diary—MEAT!!!!!!!! Bacon and pepperoni and ham, plus pineapples, tomatoes, and onions because even omnivores need a couple veggies once in a while, otherwise they’d be carnivores. I might have had my heart scooped out by Heather and fed to the squirrels but my muscles are still around and they demand protein which is going to be real important for my next courtship process, whenever that is. But like a lot of people I tend to eat more when I’m upset so I may have gone a little overboard with the pizza—I actually had six slices—which is going to be real detrimental during my next courtship process, if it ever even happens. (Sigh.) At least I put a little dent in my anemia, for now anyway.

I was in such a crazy-deep food coma on the drive home that I’m surprised I didn’t wreck my truck and all I wanted when I got back was for Laurel to console me and my aching heart and belly but of course she’s still not talking to me so I just sat there in my room like a fat nerd and read my comics. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, Diary, this is why I try to never get my hopes up with girls and friends and girlfriends in the first place because I always wind up with a belly full of cheese and a head full of bad memories. I woke up today with a real bad dangover, that’s a dairy hangover and man I wouldn’t wish it on Laurel or Heather or even Abraham or Agnes (maybe Lennon, though). I think once I’ve gotten all this cheese and ice cream out of my system I’m going to really throw myself into my writing because that’s why I’m here after all, to write The Next Great American Screenplay and I’m certainly not going to get it done if I’m too busy pining over some brush-legs-with-’em-and-leave-’em woman who won’t even give me the time of day or evening or night or anything, she probably doesn’t even own a calendar for cripes’ sakes.

So look out Diary, tomorrow this writing machine is going to take all that grease from that pizza and the peanut butter drizzle from his ice cream and all those spilled tears and oil himself right back up and kick things into a higher, more productive gear than ever before, and that’s no foolin’.

Thanks for listening, goodnight Diary.



Evan Allgood's work has appeared in McSweeney's, The Millions, LA Review of Books, The Toast, and The Billfold. He lives in Brooklyn and contributes regularly to Paste. Follow and maybe later unfollow him on Twitter @evoooooooooooo.