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rainspiritDear god, it's the morning.
Instant coffee and reheated bun with some kind of meat in it. Okay.
Feel somewhat nauseous, but that may be something to do with the fact that I've only gotten four hours. These days I usually get woken up by other things, whether by the landlady, roommates shouting "Bye!!" a little too loud, or the goddamn fucking evil avian shitbag denizen of horror and contempt puking and screaming within the confines of a living room that is impossible to live in, particularly when the television is on and the landlady is watching while good, decent individuals are trying to eat in there. Honestly, my lack of watching means my innoculation to commercials and their effects is petering off, and the Folger's humming commercial sounds akin to a funeral dirge in my head.
But anyway. I'm listening to Soundgarden on my kick-ass iPod speakers, now that I finally found my iPod under my bed. Or between the bed and the wall. Things like that. It's wiping clean the hideous commercials and the slightly creepy-looking Globe and Mail correspondant in Rome reporting on crimes that he may or may not participate in. (Clear fantasy on my part, but dear god his oily face and terrible hair and the fact that the communication lagged slightly so that there was five seconds when he'd stare at your face with empty, bleak eyes before responding with a pre-programmed answer)
Gotta keep writing. Gotta keep writing. Lately, when I imagine myself sitting down writing, I imagine it all coming down in some alien moon vernacular: "Rrghlvfmrh aghrhragraffagh" or something akin to keyboard smashing. Of course, I know if I plop down and just start writing then something will come out. Something's bound to - my mind, like my anus, inevitably excretes garbage that occasionally has pearls of wisdom or indications of my present circumstances.
Mornings are nice, actually. The day is always rushed when you wake up around 11:00 or 1:00 PM. At eight, I've got a bit of a break to organize my thoughts, clean my room, get things in perspective. Sleep would be nice, but really, things to do today. My counseler will understand. (Well, no, she'll dig at me for my horrendous sleep pattern which is the only thing she hasn't made me kick yet, but oh well.)
My tream (just typed that - trail + stream?!) of excreting thoughts is at an end. I should probably get an hour's rest. Or something.
Sleeeeeep.
Instant coffee and reheated bun with some kind of meat in it. Okay.
Feel somewhat nauseous, but that may be something to do with the fact that I've only gotten four hours. These days I usually get woken up by other things, whether by the landlady, roommates shouting "Bye!!" a little too loud, or the goddamn fucking evil avian shitbag denizen of horror and contempt puking and screaming within the confines of a living room that is impossible to live in, particularly when the television is on and the landlady is watching while good, decent individuals are trying to eat in there. Honestly, my lack of watching means my innoculation to commercials and their effects is petering off, and the Folger's humming commercial sounds akin to a funeral dirge in my head.
But anyway. I'm listening to Soundgarden on my kick-ass iPod speakers, now that I finally found my iPod under my bed. Or between the bed and the wall. Things like that. It's wiping clean the hideous commercials and the slightly creepy-looking Globe and Mail correspondant in Rome reporting on crimes that he may or may not participate in. (Clear fantasy on my part, but dear god his oily face and terrible hair and the fact that the communication lagged slightly so that there was five seconds when he'd stare at your face with empty, bleak eyes before responding with a pre-programmed answer)
Gotta keep writing. Gotta keep writing. Lately, when I imagine myself sitting down writing, I imagine it all coming down in some alien moon vernacular: "Rrghlvfmrh aghrhragraffagh" or something akin to keyboard smashing. Of course, I know if I plop down and just start writing then something will come out. Something's bound to - my mind, like my anus, inevitably excretes garbage that occasionally has pearls of wisdom or indications of my present circumstances.
Mornings are nice, actually. The day is always rushed when you wake up around 11:00 or 1:00 PM. At eight, I've got a bit of a break to organize my thoughts, clean my room, get things in perspective. Sleep would be nice, but really, things to do today. My counseler will understand. (Well, no, she'll dig at me for my horrendous sleep pattern which is the only thing she hasn't made me kick yet, but oh well.)
My tream (just typed that - trail + stream?!) of excreting thoughts is at an end. I should probably get an hour's rest. Or something.
Sleeeeeep.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-15 11:56 am (UTC)Sorry, couldn't resist.
We arrive in Victoria to see you on Sunday May 2 after a few days in Vancouver. So see you in a little ove 2 weeks time.
Love you.
Dad
no subject
Date: 2010-04-16 10:23 pm (UTC)...And thanks for the advice. :P