I have been drinking much more water, lately. I am hedging my bets, I am thinking it is good for my waning body.
Already it has caused a rush of productivity, where I came to my repressed senses, denied my inner packrat, threw miscellaneous items into six very large trash bags, and carried them to the dumpster.
I also invited a Salvation Army truck over, and they took a bed. It was an extra bed that no one ever used for sleepering. I used it as a closet, which is entirely uncouth. Now, maybe someone will find a bit of rest with its help. It's yearning to please, I bet.
Despite my proven lack of talents, I have converted my newly empty spare room into something like a studio, rife with 4track recorders, guitars, microphones and keyboards. If it turns out that I cannot do anything with it, then I will pitch fantastic rates to Joanna Newsom.
By the way: It may be testament to my lack of proper sanity, but
this Joanna Newsom song is one of my favorites. It hits me right somewhere. It makes me feel like I am not real and neither is anything else, which is comforting, because surreality is great for spooning with. Anyway, it's certainly the best harpsichord song ever. Maybe it loses a little something without the context of the rest of the songs, though.
There's something missing in you, if you don't like it.
-
Lately, I have poignant or profound dreams, which I forget as soon as reconsciousness hits like a sloppy pile of bricks. I am trying to think what it was last night, and I think that it was something about being so lonely that a black hole developed in my guts.
I mean, it was a very little black hole, but how depressing...
-
I guess that I've done quite a bit of stuff since I got back from Mississippi. I went back to Medina/Rochester for Thanksgiving. I ate turkey and played cards.
We couldn't remember how to play asshole, so we played bullshit. I won six out of seven hands. I am very good at bullshit. I should join the circuit. I bet that someday. you would see me on ESPN2, and my pointer finger would be hotly contested, in the face of some dashing celebrity, because I knew damn well that they didn't have two motherfucking jacks.
Chad and Erin bought a house in Henrietta. It's smallish and quaint. They're moving in towards the end of December, which is an ill-advised time to move anything anywhere, when you live in Western New York.
If you don't know who Chad and Erin are, or you don't care, then you should ask me, and I will tell you.
-
My time in Medina is always nerve-wracking. I always see people I used to know, even though I never used to know anybody. It's a curious thing.
On this last trip, I saw Mr. Southworth (my fourth grade teacher) while exiting the grocery store. I saw Mrs. Houserman (another fourth grade teacher) in Rudy's Diner. And I saw some dude we used to play hockey with at Nice'n'Easy, which is a dumber sort of 7-11 kind of place. I couldn't remember his name, but he looked exactly the same. I only remember that he is a year younger than me, and that he sucked at hockey.
My grandmother also informed me that she has arranged a marriage for me, with a girl named Elizabeth "who works at the bank on Main Street". Apparently, Elizabeth is twenty-four, "adorable", has a five-year-old son, and has completely given up on the male sex.
You had me at "twenty-four", Gram...
-
Before I leave, here is a picture taken recently, of my sister-in-law, her sister, and Jerry Springer.
Okay bye.
