Shoot The Messenger
Oh, the messenger bag was a mistake. Even with a be-pocketed jacket to stuff my great useless hands into, a mistake. I could scarcely have contrived a better way to humiliate myself, walking through thick summer crowds in bright sunlight with that thing bouncing off my hip, zip-tabs jangling at top volume with every lurch*, and one arm dangling
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Argh, I didn't even consider the mantra today. Mainly because 'they' plainly were looking this week. (Eventually I just shrugged the thing off, folded the strap over on itself a couple of times and pretended I was carrying some innovative new kind of canvas suitcase until I could get a shopping bag to stuff in that hovering hand. Graceful? No. Clever? ...Ish.)
Also, I cannot tell you how good it is to know there are people who feel as gawky and asocial as I do when Out In The World right now. It would WARM MY HEART if I had one.
THE YANKS CALL THEM 'BACKPACKS'
I call them that too, alternately! I don't know if it's an Americanism or not, though, like when I say 'flashlight' and have to kick myself in the shins. Or when I say that I will go do something instead of go and do something.
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::BURSTS out laughing::
It's just like that old rhyme about the centipede and the ditch.
What? What rhymes with 'centipede'?
Also, you have a morbid and overwhelming fear of death -- ? Of course you do! This is why we are friends.
It's not so much a 'fear' as a 'nagging', really. The part of my mind that won't leave a logical puzzle unsolved if it can possibly help it just won't leave death alone, even if intellectually I can concede that mortality is a problem with no solution and I should just think about Cartimandua or hedgehogs or the Greek Dark Age or something.
It only becomes an OMG GREAT TERROR when I think 'and here I am, still living with my family and single and with only one real-life friend and with a sucky job and -' and so on and so forth. Like: I have limited time left to be alive in! I should be living faster! (Which I suppose is the reasoning that leads to panic runs and tumbles.)
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Aww! I was appalled at my Nana's funeral to discover a reprobate old great-aunt who still carries around 'poems' I 'wrote' when I was ten in her handbag. She didn't dig them out, thank God. (In those days, I just thought breaking a sentence up over several lines was poetry; everyone's 'oooh!' reactions didn't help dissuade me. That phase...ended quickly.)
BUT ANYWAY apparently MJ put out something called 'Blood On The Dancefloor (1997).
I know the title for some reason, but I can't remember any new Michael Jackson songs since 'Earth Song' and I think that was 1994 or 1995 since I was a wee baby environmentalist and thought it was the cat's pyjamas. ::Wikipedia::
Oh, a remix album? That explains it.
....Greek Dark Age, oh shiny //is distracted.
I'm more into the Cartimandua option (nearly 'potion') this week. I hadn't even heard of the woman until today; now I think she sounds like a fun person to write a short, self-important play about ('exeunt The Disgruntled Eunuch
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