One of my favourite ways to get awakened (after a bad night and a mysterious rash on my shoulder that effectively put paid to sleep, kinda like Macbeth) is by an editor telling me that my story, the one I constipated through and worried about yesterday, is "delightful". Kinda makes it seem worth it.
After a bad night, I'm moving slowly, fighting my way through all this amniotic fluid, or humidity if you prefer. I need to go out and buy some food for lunch. And maybe after that, take off for Harvinder's to see if I can complete the last project I bought from her, which I still have on hand. I've done the big stuff, now have to fill in the little details.
I'm still working my way through Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, trying to get the difference between the romantic and classical viewpoints (I realise my complete incompetence with anything mechanical brands me as romantic while my mum who can dig under the hood of a car and do the basic checks at least, is classical). And yet there are things that I figure out how to do, technical though it is, which makes me sorta classical.
Somewhere in between, I guess, unlike Meredith Brooks (who's nothing in between).
Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reaching for the phone cos I can't take it anymore....
I've a to-do list, but waking up just a little before noon kind of throws it all off. Maybe if I sit down, list out the things I can still do today, it'll all work out.
Yes, I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all...
Addendum: I can see it's going to be another one of those days. Where I just keep incessantly updating this. The only way to stop is to go out. And I will. Just as soon as I feed Arnold (who's food is now heating up nicely on the stove) and shower. I just gave my scruffy little doggie a scrubbing and he's gleaming black.
OK I've just switched off his food. Will leave it to cool for a while before heaping it into his bowl. He knows, and he's come by to say hello. I pat him and marvel at how soft his fur is, newly bathed.
I got this in the mail today from a company whose service was so execrable that I will not be giving them one red cent more. It figures that after taking all that money and being horrifyingly expensive and ineffective, they cannot invest in a proper editor for the mailers...so what you get is what appears to be Freudian slips except that they're not smart enough to understand the concept of Freudian slips and so, this is nothing more than sheer ignorance, i.e. they don't know any better.
We will do our best to make you feel homely.
Really? You will? Imagine that. But no thanks. I do a pretty good job of making myself feel homely all by my lonesome.
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