Shutting down the comments .cgi is like stuffing my ears with cotton and starting a monologue. I know people are still out there, but now it's all one-way, no chance for interruption or interjection. Makes me feel bigger, somehow, like I'm taking up all the space on the monitor. Smaller, too, because now it's just me. I am bigsmall! Be moderately concerned about my ceaseless wrath.
Hot Lips Houlihan is screaming downstairs; I do wish she'd shut up. I wish she'd shut up right now. Either that, or I wish I could instantly build the door to my office-cave that I've been meaning to build since sometime last year, so that I could dampen her harpy screeching.
Television. The gift that keeps on puking.
Profoundly isolated; winter does that to me, but recently it seems that most of the time is wintertime, with the air in my head assuming the cold clarity of this season's atmosphere...it's supposed to be 30 below with windchill tonight--goddamnit she's screeching again, that stupid blonde slut--and it feels like the house will shatter if I slam the door. So very cold. I threw Bob the cat out into the powdery snow on the deck, because she's always wanting to go out and have adventures and she must learn: outside it is unpleasant on the footpads and especially nasty for a fat cat such as herself who's recently had her belly shaved for medical reasons. She got the point and ran back inside into the warmth where the food is.
I'm reading about all these people who, you know, go out and do things. With other people. It's fascinating; I'd like to do that someday, maybe.
I don't know. It seems like it might be uncomfortable, or maybe embarrassing. That wouldn't be any fun at all.
Anyway...it's late. There's a lumpy futon that serves as a makeshift sleeping platform calling to me...come downstairs...sleep...let me have my way with your spine...
The offer is only appealing because I'm tired.
Trumpet is not going well. I hit some kind of wall Wednesday, and haven't recovered. It's tough to stick brass on your face when it won't sing; but the trumpet is played from the mouthpiece backwards, so I guess I know where the problem and the solution lie.
Sad.
Glum.
Usually I attribute such random pits to brain chemistry, but I'm getting bored with that.
Late, and cold, and dark.
Aimless.
Ooo, this is fun, what else...fat. Can't forget that, although having clothes that fit mitigates that somewhat.
Itchy. My eyes are drying out.
And my new guitar has a bow in its neck.
Anything else?
No, so good night and so on.
