Year: 2002

*tap tap*

Is this thing on?

Last night I wasn’t able to publish.

On monday I got a call at work from a stranger. Stranger still, that person was from Drive 105, and they gave me a pair of tickets to see Moby tonight at the Roy Wilkins in St. Paul. Needless to say, that’s where I’m headed.

Today, the entire city is a black-lagoon. I am merely one scaly creature, slithering my way down Interstate 394. The sky is some kind of oppressive black curtain that doesn’t quite touch the white fuzzy line of the horizon.

But somehow this has only served to brighten my spirits. Either that, or the pendulum of my manic-depression has swooshed onto the manic end of the spectrum–and I’m just at the mercy of various self-created brain-altering chemicals tinting this ugly day a brighter shade of pleasant…

Either way, it’s a good day, but still too early.

I got a parking ticket this morning.
My eyes are sticky-rice and Tabasco sauce.
Things are moving in slow-mo.

Broken English is only one reminder
that we are a diverse and interesting populous.

I have no original thoughts.
I am crushed in a swamp
of self-deprecating desolation.

There is a car door open in my head with that annoying *ping* sound repeating indefinitely.

Suddenly I feel like some kind of imposter walking into work today. I don’t belong here, obviously, but at home too–Laura cleaned and the entire apartment is foreign. It was (and still is) one of those “how did I get here?” moments. What the hell am I doing here?

Excuse me, all my neurons are not firing today.

I’m burping pad-thai.

I’m printing emails again. Saw MIIB last night for free. It was ok.

Small sentences are good.

Funny quotes.

Found this over at Yami’s blog, but apparently there may be a nuclear reactor at the center of the earth. Damn that’s crazy. I wonder how many different ways there are possible to exploit that as a weapon?

Got a new victory shag today. (I still haven’t searched for blogging-shag-watchers. I’m going to start a shaggers anonymous or something–I swear!) My own fantasies are like ripe plums, juicy and ready to spoil. The fact that I told a friend about my possible fantasy-come-true and haven’t heard from her since has me sort of eyeing my email with rather silly regularity this morning.

I have too much to do at work, and a weekend with far too much planned. There is a parade this evening that I’m planning on being in, and a parade on sunday I’m planning on watching. Tomorrow promises to be busy as well.

How’s that for a pathetic post.

I recently linked Cat and Girl from my Black and White Web site. I haven’t spent enough time lately working on my own websites. I’m thinking I’ll try and get some stuff done this weekend, like a redesign for B&W, (which it has needed for quite some time) and maybe those links on this here blog, yeah.

well, I’m back from vacation. (A few days wasn’t nearly long enough.) I walked out to the bridge over our slimey little river, and it’s about two feet higher than normal. A coworker and I saw some of the big fishies, and talked about how dust in your house is 70% dead skin. Next time I turn on the TV I’m going to call it the dead-skin-collector.

Lately I have been absolutely plagued by pop songs stuck in my head. Some times it’s worse than others. Right now I have this abysmal song chanting up there like some kind of mantra. “Watch it spin arround till a beautiful oblivion…”

I just took a shower. Today was particularly satisfying. I’m not saying why. I want to tell laura why, but she’s not awake. I got an email today, and one of life’s particularly elusive fantasies has a chance of actually coming true. That’s all I’m going to say. You can email me if you want more details.

For some reason, in the shower, the title of one of those dumb bedside philosophy books just popped into my head. Don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff. Well, duh. But I was thinking about the times lately that laura has been angry with me for not telling her something I consider really small stuff. She just wants to know everything, and I don’t blame her. It occurs to me that as much as it’s all small stuff, it’s all big stuff too–and while I’m busy “not sweating it”, someone else may be busy drowning in the stuff. That’s why the title of the book, (and the whole philosophy) is fucking bogus. My small stuff may be helping little children die in South Africa.

On the other hand, it’s particularly satisfying to feel removed from things. To step back from reality and pretend it’s pretty much all unimportant in the long run. It’s not, but maybe–just for awhile–it’s ok if it is.