It’s not the grapes that are sour; it is me. They are just out of reach. Everything seems out of reach. I don’t think I will complain anymore. I don’t know what you call what I’m doing now. Acknowledging what is? “Sitting with it?” Sit on this!
A funny-faced llama just gave me a double take. As if. One of these days I’m gonna bring a mirror with me and show you what you look like, you silly creature.
I am still working through the letter A in my A-to-Z iPod death march playlist. I took a day or two off to listen to an audiobook. A couple of them, actually, by Albert Camus. I don’t know that I am the wiser for it.
“Come on! Bring it on fucker,” I scream at the truck that passes me on a blind corner. Just another teaser. I get enough of that. Don’t flirt with me, Death, if you don’t mean it.
While we’re on the subject of grapes out of reach and flirting…never mind. Just never mind.
See, there was this…
And then…
Well… Well… and then… then… then….
Never mind, forget it, you wouldn’t understand anyway.
Saturday was a big fail. The magic of my ritual has expired. It was unable to lift me even 1 millimeter from the stone cold floor. Music seems bland and pointless, as do all of my undertakings, even writing. Especially writing.
And listening to Madonna‘s version of “American Pie” makes me wanna murder my iPod.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.