it's not Friday, but I'm still random
That horrid skanky weather was totally worth it--or would have been worth it minus the hot water drama--so we could get to this: highs in the middle eighties with humidity under 50%. I feel for people who are still stuck in horrid skanky weather. (And even more for people who live where it's always horrid and skanky.)
Follow the wildly bouncing Gemini Thought Ball...
When I was in high school we had an administrator named Mr Elk, and I could not stop calling him Mr Moose (like on Captain Kangaroo) to save my soul, so I stopped calling him anything. I adored him...he looked like a cross between Gene Wilder and Tom Baker as Dr Who.
Mr Moth works with two women, one named LouAnn and one named Joan. I call them both Joanne--I'm just helpless that way. Then the landlady's daughter moved in next door for a while. Her name? Joanne. I was totally screwed. I never called her anything, my brain would just freeze up and refuse to produce a name at all. "Hi Jo-Lou-argh... Hi."
Another potentially more cataclysmic example is, I can't say I paid three dollars and ninety-two cents for gas. Can. Not. Say. It. Mr Moth sometimes asks, "How much did you pay for gas?" And I say, "A dollar ninety-two." He used to get really excited, but he's wise to my mental block now, probably because I started having this block at two dollars a gallon. I hate it when anybody else asks me about gas, because it's cruel to murder the hope that comes into their eyes when I'm babbling on about non-existent bargain fuel, but just keep on doing it no matter how I try not to.
All this is a segue into the fact that my laser printer came today. Happy Birthday to Me! We got it from NewEgg, which I always call GoodEgg. Anyhow, when Cera's story is done--very SOON, and being able to edit on hard copy will be heaven, I tell you, HEAVEN, and afterwards when I've taken out all the impossibly long run-on sentences like this one, just imagine all the glorious scrap paper--and when it is done, I will be able to sub her without going (as) bankrupt on ink.
Holy crap.
Follow the wildly bouncing Gemini Thought Ball...
When I was in high school we had an administrator named Mr Elk, and I could not stop calling him Mr Moose (like on Captain Kangaroo) to save my soul, so I stopped calling him anything. I adored him...he looked like a cross between Gene Wilder and Tom Baker as Dr Who.
Mr Moth works with two women, one named LouAnn and one named Joan. I call them both Joanne--I'm just helpless that way. Then the landlady's daughter moved in next door for a while. Her name? Joanne. I was totally screwed. I never called her anything, my brain would just freeze up and refuse to produce a name at all. "Hi Jo-Lou-argh... Hi."
Another potentially more cataclysmic example is, I can't say I paid three dollars and ninety-two cents for gas. Can. Not. Say. It. Mr Moth sometimes asks, "How much did you pay for gas?" And I say, "A dollar ninety-two." He used to get really excited, but he's wise to my mental block now, probably because I started having this block at two dollars a gallon. I hate it when anybody else asks me about gas, because it's cruel to murder the hope that comes into their eyes when I'm babbling on about non-existent bargain fuel, but just keep on doing it no matter how I try not to.
All this is a segue into the fact that my laser printer came today. Happy Birthday to Me! We got it from NewEgg, which I always call GoodEgg. Anyhow, when Cera's story is done--very SOON, and being able to edit on hard copy will be heaven, I tell you, HEAVEN, and afterwards when I've taken out all the impossibly long run-on sentences like this one, just imagine all the glorious scrap paper--and when it is done, I will be able to sub her without going (as) bankrupt on ink.
Holy crap.