I was listening to one of the local talk radio stations and the subject was, would you turn your spouse or boyfriend / girlfriend in if he/she did something illegal. No, not the really heinous, horrible crimes, but, oh, say, defrauded someone of a million dollars.
I mean - what? This was really a topic for conversation? What? Carmela to his Tony? No freakin' way. Nice house in Livingston? So what? New Mercedes? It's just a car. Nice clothes, jewelry, cool vacations? Gone, so gone.
Along with him.
I heard at least six men get on the line and say, nah, they'd never turn anyone in. "After all, it's an itty bitty crime, it ain't hurtin' no one, right?"
I thought my head was going to explode. I called the radio station, identified myself as Jill from Pleasantville, and said, "In a heartbeat, baby. You find me a crime that doesn't hurt anyone."
"Even if you'd been married to him for, like twelve years and had kids with him?"
"Why on earth would I want my kids around a criminal?"
Click. So much for "Jill" from "Pleasantville."
I'm spluttering. My fingers are spluttering on the keyboard. Oh my God. Are there really that many people in Jersey, in America, in the world who feel like a little crime never hurt nobody? Of course it hurts someone. That's why it's a crime.
So what if he defrauded people for a million dollars? Everyone kind of shrugged it off and said, "I could use da money."
No. No, no, no, no. Even if he defrauded smarmy, golf-playing idiots (redundant, I know), it's still a crime. More than likely, he defrauded some middle-aged working class divorced bat with barely a penny to her name, hoping to scrape together something for retirement.
I know it seems like I'm seeing things in black and white. I know I'm hopelessly outdated, but I don't care. If my boyfriend was smoking dope, I'd leave him and call the cops. They could do with it what they would and in Jersey, depending on who it was and how much weed we're talking, it might not be anything at all. It might be the equivalent of turning myself in for speeding. ("Lady, go home," says the weary desk sergeant.)
Sneaking a pack of gum at the checkout counter? I'd say (loudly) "Put that back or pay for it."
And I wonder why I never get asked to parties...
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Haunted Coffee Table
A couple of weeks ago, E did some curbside shopping and came up with a coffee table for me. I wasn't wild about it, but it was in better shape than the one I have now. (Also a curbside shopping find.) This new one was heavy, too. One thing I like about the old one (Lawsaday! I sound like a Virginian!) is that it's light. This means I don't break my toes when I run into it. And I always run into it.
There was a time when I lived with a lot of "This End Up" furniture, but the bruises are still here.
Anyway, this was about the same time the cats went nuts. It was like they were on speed. And the whole pecking order changed completely. It didn't just change, it was shattered. Nobody knew where they belonged. Mo and Gus and Boris were constantly at me, begging me for some unknown something. Food? Fresh water? Scoop the boxes? Treats? More treats?
They also mobbed me on the bed. Blue came up from the basement. Butch come out of the kitchen. If this had happened slowly, I could have tolerated it, but there was just something about this that was nuts.
I hadn't set up the coffee table. I basically left it near the front door where I dragged it in. And it was there that Butch decided to start leaving his mark.
This nearly drove me over the edge. He has a non-box place where he pees and I can take that. It's always the same place, so I know it's there and I can deal. But now I could smell cat pee and I couldn't locate it. Until I saw the area next to the new coffee table.
The only reasonable explanation I could think of is that the coffee table spent some time outside and was marked by an intact tom cat or there was a cat that sprayed in the house where the table came from.
So last night in my pj's, I hauled the thing back onto the front porch. This morning? Peace in the valley. Tonight? The old order is pretty much restored. Butch is visiting from the kitchen and that's just fine as long as he know where to go do his business.
I just called E and told her that the haunted coffee table is now on the front porch. She can take it to T's garage sale and foist it off on some other unsuspecting person, but it isn't coming back in Ma Maisonette again.
There was a time when I lived with a lot of "This End Up" furniture, but the bruises are still here.
Anyway, this was about the same time the cats went nuts. It was like they were on speed. And the whole pecking order changed completely. It didn't just change, it was shattered. Nobody knew where they belonged. Mo and Gus and Boris were constantly at me, begging me for some unknown something. Food? Fresh water? Scoop the boxes? Treats? More treats?
They also mobbed me on the bed. Blue came up from the basement. Butch come out of the kitchen. If this had happened slowly, I could have tolerated it, but there was just something about this that was nuts.
I hadn't set up the coffee table. I basically left it near the front door where I dragged it in. And it was there that Butch decided to start leaving his mark.
This nearly drove me over the edge. He has a non-box place where he pees and I can take that. It's always the same place, so I know it's there and I can deal. But now I could smell cat pee and I couldn't locate it. Until I saw the area next to the new coffee table.
The only reasonable explanation I could think of is that the coffee table spent some time outside and was marked by an intact tom cat or there was a cat that sprayed in the house where the table came from.
So last night in my pj's, I hauled the thing back onto the front porch. This morning? Peace in the valley. Tonight? The old order is pretty much restored. Butch is visiting from the kitchen and that's just fine as long as he know where to go do his business.
I just called E and told her that the haunted coffee table is now on the front porch. She can take it to T's garage sale and foist it off on some other unsuspecting person, but it isn't coming back in Ma Maisonette again.
Monday, July 07, 2008
The Sacred Page
A month or so ago, I bought a book called Wreck This Journal. In it are all sorts of artistic and not so artistic challenges. Examples: "Put stickers from fresh fruit on this page." "Infuse this page with the scent of your choice." See? Any kindergartner would be happy to do any of these things. In fact, likely would not have to be prompted.
It took me until today to actually do something with it. The first one was the hardest: "Crack the spine of this book." This is something which fills me with dread and horror. Seeing someone snap open a new hardback and bend the pages back until the spine gives in makes me nearly ill. I will confess to doing this sometimes with older 3rd and 4th hand books.
I did it. I achieved Journal Enlightenment. For all the years upon years that I've been keeping a journal, the page has been nearly sacred. One writes upon it. One does not fling mushed up raspberries at it or burn it or drag it around with a string. One does not draw on it, even if it takes one out of oneself.
Viz.:
Yes, I know it says "Burn this page" and it probably means "Burn the whole damn page", but no, I wanted to see what would happen. I filled the bathroom sink with water, got out a Bic lighter and went to it.
I got a tad nervous when the flame took off for the middle of the page and did not seem to want to be quenched by several dips in the sink. In the end, I stuck most of the book in the sink.
Wreck this journal, indeed.
And:
Fill the page with circles. Easy enough. But then what? It looked too bare. Besides, I just watched "The Darjeeling Limited" last night and oh, those colors, those gorgeous, rich, saturated colors.
This is using a kid's watercolor set. (I am the kid.) I bought it on the day I took delivery of the Bullet and drove out to the Crayola Factory in Easton, PA. I hadn't used it. This was a lot of fun.
But yes, yes, I get the message. The page is not sacred. The page is...the page. It's yours. It's mine. Do with it what you will. You cannot do anything wrong to it.
Loosen up. Loosen up.
Message received.
It took me until today to actually do something with it. The first one was the hardest: "Crack the spine of this book." This is something which fills me with dread and horror. Seeing someone snap open a new hardback and bend the pages back until the spine gives in makes me nearly ill. I will confess to doing this sometimes with older 3rd and 4th hand books.
I did it. I achieved Journal Enlightenment. For all the years upon years that I've been keeping a journal, the page has been nearly sacred. One writes upon it. One does not fling mushed up raspberries at it or burn it or drag it around with a string. One does not draw on it, even if it takes one out of oneself.
Viz.:
Yes, I know it says "Burn this page" and it probably means "Burn the whole damn page", but no, I wanted to see what would happen. I filled the bathroom sink with water, got out a Bic lighter and went to it.I got a tad nervous when the flame took off for the middle of the page and did not seem to want to be quenched by several dips in the sink. In the end, I stuck most of the book in the sink.
Wreck this journal, indeed.
And:
Fill the page with circles. Easy enough. But then what? It looked too bare. Besides, I just watched "The Darjeeling Limited" last night and oh, those colors, those gorgeous, rich, saturated colors.This is using a kid's watercolor set. (I am the kid.) I bought it on the day I took delivery of the Bullet and drove out to the Crayola Factory in Easton, PA. I hadn't used it. This was a lot of fun.
But yes, yes, I get the message. The page is not sacred. The page is...the page. It's yours. It's mine. Do with it what you will. You cannot do anything wrong to it.
Loosen up. Loosen up.
Message received.
Our Trev as Mr. Blackwell
A couple of weeks ago, I was walking around Unnamed Co, shivering. This is odd for several reasons: 1) I am rarely cold and 2) I'm usually wearing enough clothing that would allow me entrance into an Orthodox synagogue. On this day, I was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and a light covering of goose pimples.
Our Trevor saw me shivering and said, "Here, I've got just the thing for you" and handed me a lovely blue lambswool pullover sweater.
"Oh, gosh," I said, holding it up for size, "I hope it fits." Meaning that it would be embarrassing for me to be larger than Trev. Still, I pulled it over my head and adjusted everything into place.
I said, "It's perfect!"
Trev said, "Aww, go on, it's HUGE on you! It's far too big!"
I said, "It's perfect!" And what's more, nicely had the scent of Trev's cologne on it. "Don't you want it?"
He turned slightly pink. "My mum keeps sending me things like this and honestly, I hate it."
The woman must have no concept of what an American summer is like. And sadly has no concept of what her son likes. Because our Trev is far too flash for the likes of a sober blue sweater.
But he focused on me again. "Why on earth are you wearing that? I mean, I know you're cold today, but honestly -" And there he stopped. Maybe it was the expression on my face.
I have known for years that I'm no fashion plate. For one thing, it's too painful and exhausting. Having to keep up with fashion is also expensive, even if you do go to places like Kohl's. Today's jacket is 2009's Salvation Army donation.
To me, current fashion - even what the younger women wear to work - is shockingly immodest. Most of the things I see being worn to work, I wouldn't wear in the privacy of Ma Maisonette. Thin knits that cling to every inch of belly and reveal not just elbows but arms and décolletage.
As a public service, my knees have not been seen in public for at least three years and I think those Capri or cropped pants look silly. I keep my arms covered down to the wrist whenever I can and if there are buttons up to the neck, they get buttoned.
And I've actually been this way since I got out of high school. Part of it is because I ended up going to college in an area where rapes occurred regularly and it was still the day of "If you'd seen what she was wearing, you would know she was just asking for it."
I also realized that I was jealous of the simplicity men have when dressing for work, so I only buy black pants. I wear black socks (yes, I buy them from the men's department in Wal-Mart). Black shoes. As plain and cheap a top as I can get away with, usually bought at The Big Rummage Sale. And to top it off, some kind of jacket or long plain black sweater. Done. Maybe some earrings. The Pajama Rule still applies.
Now I've moved on from "She was asking for it" to the fear of "Mutton Dressed as Lamb". There are few things more ridiculous than a woman of a certain age wearing clothes that her granddaughter would wear.
Still, I think, so what's the big deal? This is me. Come on. This is Becs. What earthly use is it for me to go on some exhausting quest for the clothing grail? Which of course leaves that question in my mind - maybe there is a clothing grail. Maybe there is something wrong with the way I dress, something that tells much more about me than I want publicly known. Hm.
I am dismayed to realize that there was probably a great deal more that Trevor wanted to say, but in a rare show of self-restraint, didn't. I wonder what he would have said?
Our Trevor saw me shivering and said, "Here, I've got just the thing for you" and handed me a lovely blue lambswool pullover sweater.
"Oh, gosh," I said, holding it up for size, "I hope it fits." Meaning that it would be embarrassing for me to be larger than Trev. Still, I pulled it over my head and adjusted everything into place.
I said, "It's perfect!"
Trev said, "Aww, go on, it's HUGE on you! It's far too big!"
I said, "It's perfect!" And what's more, nicely had the scent of Trev's cologne on it. "Don't you want it?"
He turned slightly pink. "My mum keeps sending me things like this and honestly, I hate it."
The woman must have no concept of what an American summer is like. And sadly has no concept of what her son likes. Because our Trev is far too flash for the likes of a sober blue sweater.
But he focused on me again. "Why on earth are you wearing that? I mean, I know you're cold today, but honestly -" And there he stopped. Maybe it was the expression on my face.
I have known for years that I'm no fashion plate. For one thing, it's too painful and exhausting. Having to keep up with fashion is also expensive, even if you do go to places like Kohl's. Today's jacket is 2009's Salvation Army donation.
To me, current fashion - even what the younger women wear to work - is shockingly immodest. Most of the things I see being worn to work, I wouldn't wear in the privacy of Ma Maisonette. Thin knits that cling to every inch of belly and reveal not just elbows but arms and décolletage.
As a public service, my knees have not been seen in public for at least three years and I think those Capri or cropped pants look silly. I keep my arms covered down to the wrist whenever I can and if there are buttons up to the neck, they get buttoned.
And I've actually been this way since I got out of high school. Part of it is because I ended up going to college in an area where rapes occurred regularly and it was still the day of "If you'd seen what she was wearing, you would know she was just asking for it."
I also realized that I was jealous of the simplicity men have when dressing for work, so I only buy black pants. I wear black socks (yes, I buy them from the men's department in Wal-Mart). Black shoes. As plain and cheap a top as I can get away with, usually bought at The Big Rummage Sale. And to top it off, some kind of jacket or long plain black sweater. Done. Maybe some earrings. The Pajama Rule still applies.
Now I've moved on from "She was asking for it" to the fear of "Mutton Dressed as Lamb". There are few things more ridiculous than a woman of a certain age wearing clothes that her granddaughter would wear.
Still, I think, so what's the big deal? This is me. Come on. This is Becs. What earthly use is it for me to go on some exhausting quest for the clothing grail? Which of course leaves that question in my mind - maybe there is a clothing grail. Maybe there is something wrong with the way I dress, something that tells much more about me than I want publicly known. Hm.
I am dismayed to realize that there was probably a great deal more that Trevor wanted to say, but in a rare show of self-restraint, didn't. I wonder what he would have said?
Sunday, July 06, 2008
But soft! What light from yonder USB port breaks?
Now that I'm feeling better (than kew, than kew verra mush), my worries have shifted back over to work. They haven't been in that direction for a while and with the increase in my dicking around while at work, it only makes sense that I should once again be troubled.
This is the kind of troubled that knots my stomach and keeps me awake at night. And since I have determined that the various (prescribed) sleeping aids have been messing with my head while I'm awake, I am trying to slowly cut back on them. Slowly. At a measured pace. Spanning weeks, perhaps months.
Yesterday, I finally got around to doing something in my little study that I've been meaning to do for a year. I put the CPU on the floor under my desk along with all the hideous wires that accompany it. And months ago, I'd bought a very snazzy looking USB port-of-ports. It's black and chrome with a little plastic "GE" thing in the middle. So yesterday, I hooked that baby up and found the "GE" plastic thing put forth a blue light to let the idiot operator (that would be moi) know that all was well in Hub Heaven.
Last night, I went to bed and assumed the position. On my back, with Dylan curled up in my left arm, Taylor curled up in my right arm, Boris just below Dylan and the usual cast of characters on various parts of the bed spread, pinning me down.
The living room light is on a timer. It clicked off. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. Dammit, I'd forgotten to turn off a light in my study. I pondered the cost of disturbing the peace of the cats vs. disturbing my sleep and I won.
I got up, tottered into the office, which is right next to my bedroom, and was immediately cast back with my hands in front of my eyes. "Jesus Christ!" I yelled. The phenomenally, blindingly bright light was in fact the GE light, transmitting to the Mother Ship overhead. Or to headquarters in New York. Or to Jack Welsh's brain. It was unbelievably bright. The only thing that I know will subdue it is electrical tape or duct tape but nothing else will work.
I unplugged it and went back to bed. Why on earth did they make that thing so bright? Why couldn't it just be a gentle green glow, if that? Why not a wee green pin-size light on the side?
Oh man. I have no idea how long I tossed and turned after that but I would just like the motor heads at GE to know that this is beyond overkill.
This is the kind of troubled that knots my stomach and keeps me awake at night. And since I have determined that the various (prescribed) sleeping aids have been messing with my head while I'm awake, I am trying to slowly cut back on them. Slowly. At a measured pace. Spanning weeks, perhaps months.
Yesterday, I finally got around to doing something in my little study that I've been meaning to do for a year. I put the CPU on the floor under my desk along with all the hideous wires that accompany it. And months ago, I'd bought a very snazzy looking USB port-of-ports. It's black and chrome with a little plastic "GE" thing in the middle. So yesterday, I hooked that baby up and found the "GE" plastic thing put forth a blue light to let the idiot operator (that would be moi) know that all was well in Hub Heaven.
Last night, I went to bed and assumed the position. On my back, with Dylan curled up in my left arm, Taylor curled up in my right arm, Boris just below Dylan and the usual cast of characters on various parts of the bed spread, pinning me down.
The living room light is on a timer. It clicked off. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. Dammit, I'd forgotten to turn off a light in my study. I pondered the cost of disturbing the peace of the cats vs. disturbing my sleep and I won.
I got up, tottered into the office, which is right next to my bedroom, and was immediately cast back with my hands in front of my eyes. "Jesus Christ!" I yelled. The phenomenally, blindingly bright light was in fact the GE light, transmitting to the Mother Ship overhead. Or to headquarters in New York. Or to Jack Welsh's brain. It was unbelievably bright. The only thing that I know will subdue it is electrical tape or duct tape but nothing else will work.
I unplugged it and went back to bed. Why on earth did they make that thing so bright? Why couldn't it just be a gentle green glow, if that? Why not a wee green pin-size light on the side?
Oh man. I have no idea how long I tossed and turned after that but I would just like the motor heads at GE to know that this is beyond overkill.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Becs Reluctantly Accepts
The Empty Chair
E's family regularly shuffles bits of furniture among them. If they get tired of an accent table (yes, they're the kind of people who have accent tables), they pass it around until someone takes it. T got tired of a wicker rocking chair and I took it.
It turned out to be one of the best scratching posts the cats ever had. They lurved it. I bought a cheap fuzzy seat cushion at IKEA and then Grace decided the chair was hers. She would share it with Mo and/or Gus, but I seldom saw anyone except Gracie in it.
In the three weeks since her death, I have seen not one cat in it. Not one. Phoebe isn't even using it as a scratching post anymore, which is very unusual.
I don't know if I'm ready to set it out on trash day, but I could see taking it down to the basement. The basement is the staging area for everything that gets tossed out.
Just seeing it makes me sad. For some reason I can't explain, it gets harder, knowing she's dead, rather than easier. I am exhausted and exasperated by the New Order. I hardly know what to think of Butch, sitting next to me on the couch. And Mo is lost, lost, lost. He gets more lost every day. I have no doubt that part of my sorrow and anxiety stems from the fact that I think there are at least three more cats who are stepping into the first stages for Getting Ready to Go. They are Butch, Mo, and Gus.
The thought of losing them all so soon and so closely together is more than I can bear, so I don't think of it. I just try to cope with the new order of things and wonder when I'll have the nerve to put the empty chair on the street.
-----------------
The weekend will not go according to plan
I mentioned I had a UTI. Well, I'm still fighting it off. But guess what else? What else could further contribute to misery in a lady's nether regions? A yeast infection? Got it in one. Oh man, this is so not fair. Go ahead and laugh, because it is pretty funny. But it's not any fun. And my toe is still, well, icky.
Any house cleaning will be done within close proximity to the smallest room in the house.
Actually, I don't think I accept this. I think I'm still pretty annoyed by the whole damn mess.
I can't even go to the movies, my one sure refuge, and after yesterday, my local Starbucks will not suffice. I'm going to stay home and try not to bellyache about this so much. And yet I know a great miracle will occur on the day I go back to work - I will be healed, nothing will itch, nothing will burn, nothing will ache. All will be just jim dandy as I head back to Unnamed Co.
Rats.
E's family regularly shuffles bits of furniture among them. If they get tired of an accent table (yes, they're the kind of people who have accent tables), they pass it around until someone takes it. T got tired of a wicker rocking chair and I took it.
It turned out to be one of the best scratching posts the cats ever had. They lurved it. I bought a cheap fuzzy seat cushion at IKEA and then Grace decided the chair was hers. She would share it with Mo and/or Gus, but I seldom saw anyone except Gracie in it.
In the three weeks since her death, I have seen not one cat in it. Not one. Phoebe isn't even using it as a scratching post anymore, which is very unusual.
I don't know if I'm ready to set it out on trash day, but I could see taking it down to the basement. The basement is the staging area for everything that gets tossed out.
Just seeing it makes me sad. For some reason I can't explain, it gets harder, knowing she's dead, rather than easier. I am exhausted and exasperated by the New Order. I hardly know what to think of Butch, sitting next to me on the couch. And Mo is lost, lost, lost. He gets more lost every day. I have no doubt that part of my sorrow and anxiety stems from the fact that I think there are at least three more cats who are stepping into the first stages for Getting Ready to Go. They are Butch, Mo, and Gus.
The thought of losing them all so soon and so closely together is more than I can bear, so I don't think of it. I just try to cope with the new order of things and wonder when I'll have the nerve to put the empty chair on the street.
-----------------
The weekend will not go according to plan
I mentioned I had a UTI. Well, I'm still fighting it off. But guess what else? What else could further contribute to misery in a lady's nether regions? A yeast infection? Got it in one. Oh man, this is so not fair. Go ahead and laugh, because it is pretty funny. But it's not any fun. And my toe is still, well, icky.
Any house cleaning will be done within close proximity to the smallest room in the house.
Actually, I don't think I accept this. I think I'm still pretty annoyed by the whole damn mess.
I can't even go to the movies, my one sure refuge, and after yesterday, my local Starbucks will not suffice. I'm going to stay home and try not to bellyache about this so much. And yet I know a great miracle will occur on the day I go back to work - I will be healed, nothing will itch, nothing will burn, nothing will ache. All will be just jim dandy as I head back to Unnamed Co.
Rats.
Friday, July 04, 2008
What the Hell Happened?
Today was supposed to be all about cleaning.
It did not work out that way.
Yeah, it was a slow start. I got the basic machinery going (laundry, dishwasher), then took the ill-fated Starbucks break.
I tried to do some filing and realized I was working through the archeological layers of my life for the past four years. When I finally accepted that, I decided that not no how was I going to get it all done in one session. So I moved on to General Straightening.
Then somewhere along the line, I returned a phone call from Emma, who is now on the downhill turn. Her mother is At It again and Emma has still not realized that she never will get the Good Daughter Award from her mother, just as I never got the Good Wife Award from Xman. When you finally realize that award isn't happening, it sets you free to live your own life.
When I got free of Emma, I realized that I was limping around the house. Ever since I had that tiny bit of in-office surgery to get rid of the ingrown toenail, I've had little bouts of soreness with it but now it's really disgusting. The surgery was, I think, back at the end of April. Surely something is wrong here if my toe is very messily (just take my word for it) infected.
I have distrusted doctors for years and I'm annoyed at myself for falling for their wily promises. Sure, we'll fix your feet. Sure, we'll take care of your ingrown toenail. I have to say, other than the occasional visit to get something for UTI, I am now much of a mind to give them wide berth.
I doctored my toe, took two Tylenol, and fell into a five hour coma.
And thus endeth Friday. A day completely shot, and if I had the energy, it would really piss me off.
And what the hell is it with this buzzing stuff? Why am I getting these little electric shocks in my feet and in the undersides of my arms? What the hell is this about? Why do I feel sometimes like my head is floating a little above my body, like gravity is not exactly a law for me anymore?
Onset of psychosis? In need of a vacation? Should go back to bed and shut up?
Yeah. That last one. I'm going to bed.
It did not work out that way.
Yeah, it was a slow start. I got the basic machinery going (laundry, dishwasher), then took the ill-fated Starbucks break.
I tried to do some filing and realized I was working through the archeological layers of my life for the past four years. When I finally accepted that, I decided that not no how was I going to get it all done in one session. So I moved on to General Straightening.
Then somewhere along the line, I returned a phone call from Emma, who is now on the downhill turn. Her mother is At It again and Emma has still not realized that she never will get the Good Daughter Award from her mother, just as I never got the Good Wife Award from Xman. When you finally realize that award isn't happening, it sets you free to live your own life.
When I got free of Emma, I realized that I was limping around the house. Ever since I had that tiny bit of in-office surgery to get rid of the ingrown toenail, I've had little bouts of soreness with it but now it's really disgusting. The surgery was, I think, back at the end of April. Surely something is wrong here if my toe is very messily (just take my word for it) infected.
I have distrusted doctors for years and I'm annoyed at myself for falling for their wily promises. Sure, we'll fix your feet. Sure, we'll take care of your ingrown toenail. I have to say, other than the occasional visit to get something for UTI, I am now much of a mind to give them wide berth.
I doctored my toe, took two Tylenol, and fell into a five hour coma.
And thus endeth Friday. A day completely shot, and if I had the energy, it would really piss me off.
And what the hell is it with this buzzing stuff? Why am I getting these little electric shocks in my feet and in the undersides of my arms? What the hell is this about? Why do I feel sometimes like my head is floating a little above my body, like gravity is not exactly a law for me anymore?
Onset of psychosis? In need of a vacation? Should go back to bed and shut up?
Yeah. That last one. I'm going to bed.
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