005; I could drink a case of you and I would still be on my feet.
It's funny how obligated I feel to update this thing. Regardless of whether or not I have anything to say. Like today, for instance. I ought to be updating with somethng substantial, but instead I'm rambling on about nothing at all. Why? Why bother at all? I don't fear the six week rule, since I'm good for at least a few entries a month. Yet here I am, faced with this familar white box, and I just haven't much of anything to say. I know it, by now you well know it, and yet I persist. Clickety-clackety, I type type type. About nothing and no one in particular.
It's strangely hypnotic, talking about nothing. One could make all sorts of elusive and cryptic statements in an entry like this. One could allude to love, to hatred, to vengeance, to nothing at all. And there will be at least one person reading, who'll think, "Is she talking about me?" But I won't do that because it's no fun. I make it a point not to be a cryptic woman, when it can be helped.
My mind is frazzled this afternoon. I need cocoa, slippers, and someone to smoke with. Instead, I'll probably make lunch, skip the slippers and go straight for the shower. How droll!
It's strangely hypnotic, talking about nothing. One could make all sorts of elusive and cryptic statements in an entry like this. One could allude to love, to hatred, to vengeance, to nothing at all. And there will be at least one person reading, who'll think, "Is she talking about me?" But I won't do that because it's no fun. I make it a point not to be a cryptic woman, when it can be helped.
My mind is frazzled this afternoon. I need cocoa, slippers, and someone to smoke with. Instead, I'll probably make lunch, skip the slippers and go straight for the shower. How droll!