Weekends with Ixtab

If I could make my decision over again, I probably would not make a decision.

If I must stagnate somewhere, I'd rather it was Burlington, which is a very small city in Vermont. I lived there once. I like to say "I lived there, once. Burlington, I mean. In Vermont. So what if I already told you?"

Everybody is so busy working. We might as well be dead.

I think things will be better once I move into my apartment. I have a fireplace and a hearth. What an amenity!

I am anticipating those chilly July Florida evenings, where I will throw a few chunks of wood into the fireplace.

Anyway, I am just very sick of this hotel room. I have lived in this hotel room since January 14th, or something. It's a tragedy.

I almost missed any snow whatsoever this year. This year was the least cumulative amount of snow I have ever been a part of in a season. It's certainly tragic. I don't think I survive correctly without the appropriate winter dosage.

I mean, I am from somewhere near Buffalo, for goodnesses sakes. I like to say "I grew up there. Near Buffalo. In Western New York. So what if you already know, I'm telling you again, fucker."

The point is, I need winterishness. I need to spend at least three hundred hours per year wearing a coat, or my skin becomes grotesquely tannish. It's a tragedy.

Last weekend was when Lisa & Matt came to visit. We ate, drank, fake skydove, swam, canoed, miniaturegolfed, visited grandparents, and sang george thoroughlygood songs. It was fastpaced and good. Full of goodness. I needed the vacation from myself, because I am poor company.

I was down last week, because all of my human reaching had crashed in shambles of tatters. My presence has gone ignored and unsought, and so my esteem suffered! OH, the Tragedy! So this is also why the incoming vacation was a necessary lapse of centered attentions. Streuth!

Being isolated makes me feel like I am on my own. When I am on my own for much, I get way into woe. When I am way into WOE, well I just don't know.

I am into open G. I content myself with evening and weekend hobbies. I will get better at being more like Phil Elvrum. I will get worse at being like Jonathan Safran Foer, but I will get better at envying him. Greenly.

I would like to read my book, on that park bench at the side of the lake. I would like to be a limited-edition human being.

If I watched television at all, it would just be the Daily Show and reruns of Cheers.

Will we be our own psychopomps?

Who will record the crickets of Thursday night the 21st, to audio tape?