Stephen Fry in some of America

I like it so far now that I can finally watch it, but damn dude, scared to get out in the Ohio wilderness or something? YOU WENT PAST THE BIGGEST FUCKING SCULPTURE OF JESUS IN THE WORLD AT SOME POINT, I KNOW YOU DID. That's way more interesting than "Four Dead in Ohio."

I still like you, Fry, but snubbing Ohio was uncalled for. :P

Enough of it to knit a small fire engine

It's really not such a retinal burner in person, but it is brighter than I expected. I think I'll make some kind of hood or stole (rectangular shawl, really) in a very lacy pattern so it looks less frightening.

hm.

Fun you're not having

Aaron got me the most wonderful little mp3 player for Valentine's Day :) It's a little Sansa 8GB and it more than does its job. I no longer even give a shit about Zune, because even with this one having less storage space (which is even expandable far beyond my interests with MicroSD, so no big deal), it's fucking cool. And there's no touch screen. (My Motorola Rival phone has taught me the value of not having a fucking touch screen in your pocket.) And it's small enough to fit inside of things instead of actually demanding pocket space. I'll still keep songs on my Rivalphone because it has a broadcasting speaker, but sweet technology! Only 10 years or so after everyone else has them...

Yeah, and fuck you iPad.

I've been bored today, yes, it's possible... I had the nastiest bitch of a headache ever last night. I felt kind of stupid going to the hospital for a headache (less so after thinking about the nasty place I'd gotten lunch from and the possibility of meningitis, or fear of aneurysm), but I couldn't move my head anymore and I was about to go in after the pain. (Quite literally, as I have nail cuts at the back of my head.) Whatever it was they gave me and said "here, lay here in this hobo closet exam room that is very small while this bag empties" made me fucking paranoid and antsy, too. That sucked.

I still have remnants of the headache, but I at least got out for cat food and laundry quarters and I can at least pretend I'll spend the evening doing laundry and shit. This place has suffered :/

All the sleeping I do...

I dreamed last night I was working for Mr. Burns. It was strange, because he was animated and everything else wasn't. I was some sort of housekeeper trying to advance in the company (somehow not a power plant) and very pissed to find out that my health benefits were invalid for three months of the year, so I'd have to spend three months without Excedrin. All this while a tornado came through.

The theme of my sleep lately has been pretending to be more sophisticated than I am. I don't get that part, because it's not like I've applied for any jobs recently or made any new friends who would notice it when I eat microwaved food with a salad fork. (Shit, how shocked was I when I learned we had salad forks!) Maybe I feel like I should be having this pressure, and even my dreams are nagging cunts.

Also, I totally know how to play "Song of the Ass" on a viola da gamba now and I barely even fuck it up. I haven't bowed an instrument in over five years. I still sorta have it just as much as I barely grasped it then, and that makes me happy. I'm incredibly unmusical as it is, but it feels good to steal the gamba for a little bit and fool with it. I'll never have limber enough hands again to play real music (like on the lovely viola I had in school, though when I can get it back from my nephew, I'd love to try it again), but pretending is good enough.

Accomplishments!

I shouldn't love this half as much as I do

I guess it's comforting to see Stephen Fry looking like someone I could run into at my own family reunion for once instead of someone who'd lightly disapprove of the paper I'd stayed up to finish the night before.

Sometimes I just catch that mood.

I wrote a shitty poem in my sleep.

I slept very strangely last night. (I've had a full day since, so it's not like I just woke up.) My dreams were just absolutely bizarre. It started out with Rachel dream-calling me and telling me that her guinea pig, Oreo, had made a suicide attempt and she needed me to come up. I was busy trying to finish my last course portfolio for my BS in English (I am absolutely this entertaining and kind to education in my dreams), so I told her I'd give her gas money if she wanted to come down, then I wrote this poem (this is it as nearly as I can remember, it was longer I know):

500 Lithuanians live in an apartment complex.
On payday, 500 Lithuanians receive a bonus.
500 Lithuanians walk to the video store,
each rents a comedy and buys a box of lemon candy.
500 Lithuanians go home, and 500 comedies play.
500 Lithuanians laugh.

(Terrible poem? Yes. The numbers are too unforgiving, and it's stupid too.)

Anyway, so then, after I've gotten my scores for my portfolio, I get back home and Rachel is sitting in my car, parked next to the dumpsters. She gets out and says "Hey, I just wanted to show you that your back door opens if you do it like this..." and she gets it opened just by pushing on the other side and pulling the handle. [This door is firmly broken shut on my waking car.] While I'm marveling at this, a guy in gold, very round glasses and a three-piece fuchsia tweed suit comes up to us and says "Ma'am, are you close? Ma'am, are you close? I saw that you were over there, can you be closer? Can you be closer?" and keeps repeating "can you be closer?" while it's getting darker.

Aaron called and woke me up. Thank fuckin' God, because that was creepy.

It's Sunday.

I had no idea.

I had some terrible, terrible dreams last night, but not the usual monsters-in-daylight sort. These were all failures to launch. Everything I did fell apart in my hands or blew up in my face (literally so in the case that I was for some reason cheating on my husband with a faceless, boring man whose hair was awful). I'll have to try to be more positive than that today.

Finally, cats are little assholes because all it takes to stir them is opening one fucking window for a few hours. I'm sure the neighbors got something out of seeing Timer give Georgia a full tongue bath in the windowsill. I hope they did.