(no subject)
You know, I feel more and more like Stephan. The day I roll out of bed like Gregor Samsa with a headache and wearing a gray cat-man suit will be the realization of dream and dread in equal parts.
BUT: I got a heating pad. And there is a pretty lady on the box. I will put it beside me and pull the covers up and squint. I shall squint and pretend that she is leaning over to pet me instead of the soft, plush exterior of the heating pad cover in the picture. I am so much warmer than that 2-D rendering of medical-blue fabric, oh baby. Baby.
Also, I want to get a masters in English. But I got dumb and now I'm a little worried I might not be able to regrow synapses I poisoned with sloth, alcohol, and of course, slothcohol.
My greatest impulse is to make this journal gush effusively (to "issue forth") like an open wound about my love/like/lust life and the individual involved, but seeing as I live in a small town with many readers of this journal, that doesn't seem to be of sound moral judgment. I know I'm not the most discrete person in the world, perhaps 4,362,000,623rd out of a population of approximately 6,635,693,196, but even I feel a dim sense of consequence of putting everything down here. Even though I really long to, long livejournal paeans to the icy drafts and 250-mile long solar lariats of dealing with another person this up close (or far). The metaphors just start toppling over each other in my head like...little units of low-friction toppling objects. Shit is going down. At some point I'll need to tell you about it. Sometimes I feel like experience passes right through me like Oly, but these days I'm trying to mull and meditate upon it without the invisible audience which I really sort of miss, but maybe don't need? I've had online journals for a loooong time, almost 9 years (bonus points for anyone who can stir up angelfire's less than delectable "Murmurs from the Drainage Pipe"...or then again, maybe not) on some basis consistent or otherwise...it's hard to shut up. But, Livejournal WAS just bought by the Russians (I think it's safe to assume these people are sort of like "the gays"). Perhaps that's the perfect excuse to shut the fuck up lest my silly little life secrets get stolen and converted into the Sputnik II. Sort of like the Infinite Improbability drive, only with angst and talk of digestive troubles instead of falling whales. Shut the hell up already.
Well...we'll see anyway. I have a job interview tomorrow. I want this job. I have this job. I have this job. I have this job. I am rocking this job so hard it has a burning feeling. I have this job. I have this job and we are in love and nothing can stop us, like that stupid beatles movie with the exploding strawberry.
Also: Rascal Flatts!
That is some catchy shit.
BUT: I got a heating pad. And there is a pretty lady on the box. I will put it beside me and pull the covers up and squint. I shall squint and pretend that she is leaning over to pet me instead of the soft, plush exterior of the heating pad cover in the picture. I am so much warmer than that 2-D rendering of medical-blue fabric, oh baby. Baby.
Also, I want to get a masters in English. But I got dumb and now I'm a little worried I might not be able to regrow synapses I poisoned with sloth, alcohol, and of course, slothcohol.
My greatest impulse is to make this journal gush effusively (to "issue forth") like an open wound about my love/like/lust life and the individual involved, but seeing as I live in a small town with many readers of this journal, that doesn't seem to be of sound moral judgment. I know I'm not the most discrete person in the world, perhaps 4,362,000,623rd out of a population of approximately 6,635,693,196, but even I feel a dim sense of consequence of putting everything down here. Even though I really long to, long livejournal paeans to the icy drafts and 250-mile long solar lariats of dealing with another person this up close (or far). The metaphors just start toppling over each other in my head like...little units of low-friction toppling objects. Shit is going down. At some point I'll need to tell you about it. Sometimes I feel like experience passes right through me like Oly, but these days I'm trying to mull and meditate upon it without the invisible audience which I really sort of miss, but maybe don't need? I've had online journals for a loooong time, almost 9 years (bonus points for anyone who can stir up angelfire's less than delectable "Murmurs from the Drainage Pipe"...or then again, maybe not) on some basis consistent or otherwise...it's hard to shut up. But, Livejournal WAS just bought by the Russians (I think it's safe to assume these people are sort of like "the gays"). Perhaps that's the perfect excuse to shut the fuck up lest my silly little life secrets get stolen and converted into the Sputnik II. Sort of like the Infinite Improbability drive, only with angst and talk of digestive troubles instead of falling whales. Shut the hell up already.
Well...we'll see anyway. I have a job interview tomorrow. I want this job. I have this job. I have this job. I have this job. I am rocking this job so hard it has a burning feeling. I have this job. I have this job and we are in love and nothing can stop us, like that stupid beatles movie with the exploding strawberry.
Also: Rascal Flatts!
That is some catchy shit.