A Mish Mash In Many Parts, Because It Is Friday And I Am Brainless And I Can't Suck On Jolly Ranchers And Type At The Same Time (or An Illustration Of My Off-Kilter Side)

I have half an hour. Let’s see what damage I can do here.


One of my co-workers has gone on the patch in an effort to quit smoking. I tried that a few years ago. Obviously, that attempt didn’t work, but it did give me some of the most vivid dreams that I have ever had. Vivid dreaming was actually listed as a side effect on the little information insert in the package. So, I asked this co-worker if she had been having vivid dreams since she had started the patch. She asked me why I had asked her that, so I told her the story about how when I had been on the patch on I had had this incredibly real-seeming dream in which I was a seven-and-a-half foot tall blue alien who gave birth to a human baby and was horrified at the monstrosity I had just created. My co-worker looked at me strangely, said that she wasn’t worried about her violent nicotine dreams now that she had heard mine, and shut herself off in her office.
Moral of the story: Keep your pharmaceutically induced dream life separate from your work world.


Go see the movie “What the #$*! Do We Know?” It rocks, and I will sound like some flaked out new-ager if I try to tell you about it, because I can’t explain quantum physics at all. See it. Love it. (Enthymeme, I think this one’s for you).


A sign that the onset of my usual winter neuroses, although delayed, are settling in quite nicely:
I really wanted popcorn the other night, and the Fiery One even suggested that I eat popcorn, but I couldn’t do it unless I knew that CSI would be on. You see, we had already eaten supper, and so I had to create rules around my desire to continue eating, because that is what I do when I’m not letting myself go hungry all the time and it’s winter and I’m feeling fidgety. CSI did not come on, so I did not eat popcorn. I felt ridiculous telling the Fiery One that I could not eat popcorn because CSI wasn’t on, but them’s the breaks. I eat regularly and fairly well, so my use of arbitrary rules to make my way through the world of snack foods can run its course until March when the sun comes up again.*

*Did I just tell you that? Crap. I am a compulsive confesser. I should have been born a Catholic.


I have finally put a little bit of money down on my Last.fm account, and it is causing me no end of pleasure, especially at work where I use it as my regular radio station. They need more paying members, so sign up now!


Good news! Lurkers have been coming out to say hello to me since my previous entry. I was right. There were more than two avid readers hanging about in the cybershadows, and I have been assured that at least one of them doesn’t wear baseball caps or live in Canada, which lessens the probability that she’s a stalker. Damn, now my paranoiac fervor has been dampened. I have to while away the winter months somehow, you know!


To Die in Socks
- Peter Zilahy

to die in socks
because the floor is cold
to snuggle into lukewarm
ankle socks
to end there
‘tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished

because shoes are a prison
and there's too little time
to change into slippers
but to die in socks
feels so at home
to wake at dawn
start pulling them up
and die in the midst
of the familiar motion
to say - Gee, I'm dying now
in socks
and to step out
as if for a glass of water
from here on death
and not to sob