It really feels like a day for a list again. I have been a bit overwhelmed1 with a few things over the last several days, and writing cohesive2 narrative has not been at the top of my to-do3 list.4

1 I wrote those first two sentences, and then went to the washroom. I got my period. Yippee, and I do not mean that sarcastically. Using overwhelmed was putting my mood over the last few days mildly. I spent most of yesterday fighting tears in my cubicle, trying to bouy myself up with the avalanche of visitors I've been receiving thanks to Finslippy, but nevertheless succumbing to hopelessness by noon. Things are, as they say, looking up.

2 When I look at words like cohesive, ones with a prefix and a suffix sandwiching an odd middle root, I wonder things like What is this hes part I know nothing about? What is it to hese? Is it like two things existing proximally to each other, and then the co comes along to make them stick together? When the Fiery One and I are moving around near each other, are we hesing? Then, after noodling around with goofy word play, I look it up and find out that I am, of course, wrong. The root of the middle part, hes, is haerere, which means "to stick". This also helps to make sense out of the word hesitation. The more you know...

3 I don't keep to-do lists. They are too freaking depressing.

4 You're still here after my exhaustive side notes? Fantastic. Oh, you thought these side notes were the list? No. I just can't get through writing two sentences without overthinking everything, and I thought I'd let you see what a whirring soup my brain can be.

Here is the list:

  • Finslippy wants to be my neighbour! That has made me smile through my pre-menstrual dysmorphia. If we could find a way to jam our buildings into one wad so that our apartments could be next to each other and still work with the whole space/time continuum thing, I'd be all for it.

  • When Finslippy devotes an entry to you, man, do the visitors roll in. Hello internet folk whom I have never met! (If speaking to your viewing audience on television is called "breaking the fourth wall", what is it when you do it on the internet? Does it even count, like losing your virginity to tampons?)

  • After all my going on recently about creating readable websites, a reader pointed out to me that the font size on my website was not scalable. I hate going to websites with tiny fonts that you can't enlarge, so I was horrified at my oversight. I have successfully fixed this issue, so any of you that find yourselves here on a regular basis squinting at your monitor can quit doing that. The squinting, I mean. Do keep coming back. I like you.

  • I just had drinks! With co-workers! After work! I am so! tired! of being! on! An introvert's world can be a scary place.

  • What sort of exciting activities fill Schmutzie's evenings during her fifteen minutes of blog-fame? Why, the knitting of furniture booties, of course. I have been knitting little booties for our chairs and the sofa to stop the insidious scratching of our hardwood floors. Blackbird pointed out that there are these inexpensive, adhesive felt pads that do the job quite well, but I just wouldn't be myself if I didn't spend hours knitting up dorky looking booties. Now our chairs have orange, blue, red, and burgundy feet. It's almost like they're scottie dogs and I'm a dotty old lady. It's almost like I need a new hobby.

  • When I was kid, I had this idea that everyone was supposed to have hobbies, so I took up all kinds of stupid hobbies. I feigned deep interest in string art, woodburning, plants, home science experiments, weaving, and papier mache sculptures, to name a few. Nobody wants to hang sailboat pictures made of gold string or boots burnt into cheap plywood, my mother's flowers apparently required water at some point, it's difficult to completely reduce a dead bird by fire, and eventually, you can have too many papier mache sculptures.

  • My first-day-of-my-period cravings are demanding that I hit the corner store for some salty chips with dip. They have been coursing through my veins with tiny weapons, holding any cell they pass at gunpoint, demanding to know where my gullible neurons are. I think they've been directed to the ones responsible for giving a good goddam what I eat, because I am already out the door.