Something about this holiday season and conversations with my Mom . . .
Conversation With My Mom (Part II):
Me: What do you get a baby for Christmas?
Me: A baby. For Christmas?
Mom: What kind?
Me: . . . . . human.
Me: My Goddaughter.
Mom: Oh . . . OH . . . that baby. [laughing] I thought you were saying that you wanted a baby for Christmas and were asking about that.
Me: No. I dozed off in Health Class but I have a pretty good idea how to make one of those. I mean, we do have Animal Planet.
The novel contest is starting to drive me nuts. Waking up, every day, for several months thinking THIS COULD BE THE DAY! and rushing to the computer can do bad things to your brain.
Mysterious, unaccounted for, and unexplained bags of coffee managed to get into my room, all the way from Georgia, today. I’d explain that statement, but it sounds better cryptic.
My parents home has a very SLOTH effect on me and I got to figure out a way to counteract it. Lazy is good . . . but this gets ridiculous. There’s more to do. Every day I should be asking myself how to sharpen my quills.
I often need to meditate to sort out the various cherubs and goblins in my head, but, I’m not much for routine, so there never is a set way, I always find a different ritual. Last night’s ritual involved driving about in the AM hours, past skeleton trees with the window open, listening to medieval winter music, and eating Taco Bell.
I’m uploading some Rasputina music. I can’t say all of it was acquired legally (and have you noticed that all of those “pirating music/movies is bad, don’t be a pirate” commercials have stopped? I think it’s because a certain set of Johnny Depp movies has the high entertainment execs worried that if they liken downloading to piracy, the kids will do it all the more. I mean, what little lad or lass with a decent bandwith doesn’t want to be a pirate?), but if I see them in person, I plan on slipping them a twenty spot. Fuck the middle man.
I suppose if I were to do this properly . . . I ought to spike up my coke with some rum . . .
. . . that’s better.