So last night pretty much bit the big one.  I had escaped Springfield, past the boarder of boredom…but alas, the boredom boarder patrol are sharp on the trigger.  BAM!  Persephone, my addled convertible, finally made her death rattle…just 10 miles from friends and fun and drink.

 

Wait in the car.

 

Call AAA.

 

Wait for tow truck.

 

Wait during the ride home, in said truck.

 

Back in my apartment.

 

The highlight of the evening were some drunk calls from Wil.  I have no idea what was said in any of the long conversations we had.  There were English words in there…but any meaning was pretty ambiguous.  “Shit,” “cock,” and “fuck” were spliced in between words…and, at the height of the gibberish, I think he even managed to get the four letter words between the syllables of other words (that takes some deft vocalization Wil!).

 

Now I’m stuck here, indefinitely.  I’ve taken the opportunity to laze about and get extra sleep.  I’m glad I’ve gotten into running, as grocery shopping is going to involve several miles of hiking now.

 

Sandwiched between four walls, with just the thoughts in my head (and they have not been charitable creatures as of late).  I guess I can continue and “fix” my computer – I could get some work done – I could watch some movies – I could masturbate myself into a coma – I could stare and Lenore and observe the imperceptibly slow process of mouse digestion – I could carve poems into my walls with a screwdriver (sonnets on the walls and sestinas on the ceiling)…

 

Lot’s of options.

I was at the pet shop, getting frozen mice for Lenore, when this girl opened her mouth and let stupidity ooze out.

Her boyfriend was holding two ball pythons (a very small, very harmless python) trying to decide which one he wanted. She was freezing up, waxing dramatic, and insisting that he not even touch her, going on and on about how scary snakes are and how, “I’m just going to get a cute puppy and keep that thing away from me.” Then she looked around the room the way one looks around the room, after saying something ignorant, searching for support from strangers with one’s eyes.

She finally turned to me, silently seeking support from me. I smiled and leaned in and whispered to her the overwhelming statistical percentage that says how very much (as in with all certainty) more likely she’ll end up brutally killed by her adorable puppy (dogs being the number one man-killing animal) than her boyfriend’s harmless snake. In the realm of far out possibilities (lightening strikes, etc.), her puppy tearing out her throat was not all that far fetched.

I used to have a lot of patience for silly snake fear. I don’t anymore. When someone screams and goes frigid over an acute terror of a ceiling fan, we tell them this is irrational and that they should correct or maybe seek counseling to correct this psychological anamoly. When someone has the same paralyzing fear (we take it for granted…but really, these are adults with a paralyzing fear, they actually react to it physically), we pat them on the back. Bah!

I’m drinking ants. It’s come to this. I’m ingesting ants and they have protein. I found them crawling into my water. Given the low lighting of my room and the amount of water I gulp down when I work…I have no idea how many of the little bastards I’ve ingested. I should be disgusted…but it makes me smile.

Last night, my computer crashed. Suddenly, it disavowed any knowledge of Windows…as if it was just dumped – along with, well, my LIFE! At that point, it seemed as though it might be slightly easier to start a new career than it would be to repair the damages and retrace the lost work.

I was angry. Real angry. Fifteen syllable swear words that have never been spoken by mortal tongues, angry. Pissed off enough to piss barbed wire and spit acid. Angry enough to eat a cute puppy. Mad enough to tear out the nice, congenial part of myself, from my psyche, just so I could beat the ever loving shit out of it and call it a “sissy” while it bleeds and sobs on the pavement. Angry.

So when running time came at 5:15 am…I needed some catharsis if I was going to sleep that day (that is…this day). We ran for our longest interval yet – 15 minutes. Our runs are usually much longer than that…but they are split in intervals of walking and running. We did it. There was some feeling of accomplishment. But it wasn’t enough. Still had steam. So, when I drove back, to the dorm…I got out of my car and ran to the lake and back (another few miles). It worked.

But then, surprise, I gave the computer one final crack before going to sleep. I could not get the reboot disk to do its function…but then, while it was screwing up even worse…Windows magically came on…even though it was addled and slow. I took the opportunity to back up all my work quick..and then set about fixing any possible problems that might have caused all this. It seems to be working…for now.

Anger = exercise.

Torrie came over to help me get some photos of Lenore and measure her. She is a little over 8 months old and about 30.5 inches long. And now some pics…

Sorry Torrie…I know you didn’t want to be in the pictures…but you got accidently caught in the crossfire of one of the ones that turned out. Besides, pretty girls fearing cameras is as silly as crows fearing the sky.

Well, that’s the lenore update. I’ve lost count of the number of mice she’s devoured. It’s likely near one hundred at this point.

Now…back to work…if I can. An ear/tooth ache just hit the right side of my face and I’m in tremendous pain and cannot concentrate and the pain killers aren’t cutting it and ARGHGHGHGHGHGGHGHGHGHGHGHGHG!

OK…this is for those who might not read Dave’s journal…spreading the word…

Pajama Jam at Dave and Adrienne’s appartment:

Saturday, April 23: From Dusk Till Dawn.

Naperville, IL.

I am herby authorized to bring folks along. Let me know if you want to go. Or if anyone wants to carpool up to Naperville.

Wise man say – He who run out of underwear, best make sure fly is zipped.

While I make endless fun over over-priced, pretentious coffee and the people that buy it…I end up buying said coffees, while hanging out at coffee houses, and then I take a big sip and swear I can taste my own acrid hypocrisy…or maybe that’s just burnt coffee…I hate when they give you the burnt coffee…all the whipped cream in the world doesn’t cover that shit!

ATHENS (Reuters) – Greek prison guards will go on strike next week demanding a change of their American-made weapons that date back to the U.S. wars in central America almost a century ago.

While antique shops would be eager to get their hands on them, prison guards just want to get rid of their obsolete 1911 U.S. Cavalry revolvers. The guns do not scare inmates any more as safety experts have advised guards not to fire them.

It occurs to me that running has become, to me, what Fight Club is to Edward Norton. So I guess the world is safe from my split personality and anarchist group he would have started. But…for how long?

I read an article today about character motivations and how not to let your oh so carefully laid plot hamstring the actions that they want to do (and when you flesh a character out…they start to think on their own). At one point it was talking about tragedy and how the best tragedies are tragic because they are situations that any other character might have done alright in (but not the tragic hero).

So…for example, Othello would have no problem in Hamlet’s position and vice versa. I thought OH YEAH…that is very true, and the scenarios played out in my head. Othello is straight forward, an ass kicker, to the point. But he was in a web of deceit woven by a clever and subtle villain. Hamlet is brilliant, his mind has many layers…but he has to think through all those layers and he fucks up a straightforward problem and, instead of a swift justice, it’s a messy cluster-fuck (I’ve used the word twice in one sentence, purely to demonstrate its versatility and vicissitude) and many people die (a metaphor for a messy break-up…I think so).

But switch. Othello, in Hamlet’s place, would be one quick play. Dad killed by uncle? He’d bust the doors down and shove a sword down Claudius’s throat. Polonius, Laeretes, and Ophelia survive – and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not dead (unfortunately, destroying an awesome comedy before it is even born).

Hamlet, in Othello’s place, would be longer…but very interesting. He would not jump to conclusions about his wife, Desdemona (always loved that name)…in fact, Hamlet is the ever loving king of NOT jumping to conclusions, but of pontificating on them eloquently, and tirelessly…only, in this situation, it would save him rather than damn him. Iago is one of the best, nastiest, craftiest villains…so how sweet it would be that his trap would be disarmed by someone smarter still. I venture that Hamlet would not only figure out the skullduggery, but counter with his own intellectual trap, beeting Iago at his own game; the later ending the play with his melodramatic screams of, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Oh…I think…uh…yes…maybe…yes…I think there’s a play there. Both would be shorter than the original and so both could be combined to form one play. Maybe one follows the other…maybe scenes switch back and forth…maybe Hamlet and Othello meet in Purgatory and agree to switch places and try again. I don’t know…it’s just barely a thought…but it’s gestating…

Yesturday I was solicited for cyber sex by a total stranger (with the hint of phone sex to follow). The afterschool specials of my youth failed to cover this…

AND NOW FOR NOCTURNAL LIVING TIP #629:
Phytochemicals present in blueberries, cranberries, bilberries, and purple grapes provide purple pigment to the retina. This aids night vision as well as improves ocular blood circulation. Combined with vitamin C (strengthening collagen in your eyes), the effects are increased. Antioxidants further the effect even more. All the above can be found in Welch’s Grape juice. It’s night vision in a glass.

For therapy, interpreting inkblots doesn’t do it for me. So I turned the heat up, put the top down, set the music to blaring and drove under stormy skies, interpreting the ominous clouds overhead, told stories with their shapes.

Looked over the last few posts – tired of mopy whining.

Moods are weather patterns. You can’t control them – no tempest in a teapot set to whistle at your convenience. But the will, the will is your choice, the choice to catch pneumonia in the chill – or slap on goulashes, giggle, and play in the puddles. To laughing in the blue – to smiling at darkening skies…