Work sucks my cock, my computer at home is playing dumb, and I have a load of bills to pay that is literally three inches thick.
A little patience, yeah… yeah.
I hate that song, and Axle Rose is a moron. (But somehow it’s still stuck in my head.)
I tried to think of more stuff to complain about, but then realized that life is pretty good. (Nice how that worked out.) Laura has been a saint the last couple of days, (claiming she’s making up for her grumpiness all weekend, but I wonder if she isn’t just a little jealous). I told her that I’d write her that poem about the elusive soft shelled turtle. This weekend we’re sojourning to Chicago for Verakai.
My mind is mush.
Underlying subtext of this entry’s title (which I am now making not so “sub”(tle)): I am nervous (no doubt needlessly) about an impending “date” tonight. I got an email from her and we are now hanging out with a friend of hers. Not that we ever explicitly made exclusive plans, explicitly or exclusively. There is always that (irrational) fear that the friend is really more of a chaperone.
[Poem Question: Was it at all obvious that Ms Turtle is, in fact, a clitoris? UPDATE: I’ve split this entry off into two entries, one with the poem, one without. Should have done this before I posted, but I’ll bet nobody noticed!]