It's not that I've left LiveJournal, it's that I have nothing to say. I've entered another phase where I don't find anything about my life or myself that is at all particularly interesting.

I feel old. I feel odd. I cut my hair too short and I'm starting to have the distressing habit of neglecting my social responsibilities. And that is all for me. Oh, I guess there's wedding stuff, but I'm third in line behind other people near me who are having weddings which are more interesting, joyful and closer in temporal proximity. No one want to read whom it was I booked to tend bar at the reception. I don't want to read that sort of thing, and I'm the one typing it.

It's not ennui or depression. It's just that I'm not really feeling anything other than alive. I am continuing to breathe and that's about it. No one wants a post like that: "haven't stopped breathing." Enter. Send. Or maybe they do. Life seems to be turning into Short Attention Span Theare. Twitter and Facebook and the like feeding interaction to us in over-simplified, bite-sized, and usually inconsequential portions that manages to be totally self-centered and completely without center all at the same time. The intellectual in me is offended. The cultural anthropologist that lives in the closet at the back of my mind is offended. It feels like our society is becoming stupider and stupider every day. Or maybe I'm just snobby and backward. That's possible, too. Perhaps I should get over my devotion to communication and ideas and spelling out whole words and just go with the flow. Be brief. Be unimportant. Be vapid.

Goin 2 brkfst w Mom. H8 drvin ovr thr. b bk l8r

Fuck.

So in my illness I dragged my laptop upstairs to keep me company. I didn't use it much, and, now that I have recovered somewhat, still aren't using it much but also have not dragged it back downstairs yet. I had a really interesting idea a couple minutes ago and decided I would write about it before getting up and going to do laundry.

This is the part where I mention that every damn day I find a new reason to hate television. Like now. I never actually watched the show, but I saw enough advertisements to know that the horse-faced woman from "SEX IN THE CITY" did a lot of blogging from the comfort of her bed. She'd just roll over and type on her laptop, looking all tousled and whathaveyou and type something interesting (I assume.)

I, however, thought of something interesting, rolled over to type it into my laptop and squished a boob funny so I had to readjust and then realized the computer wasn't on so I had to boot it up and then my feet got cold so I had to find the blankets again which had fallen on the other side of the bed when I rolled over but couldn't find them because my hair was a frightful, ratty mess from sleeping and not the tousled mess that I was promised via television it would be and then the computer booted but I seemed to still be laying incorrectly so I rolled around for a minute trying to find a body/bed agreement but by then I had totally forgotten the interesting thing I was going to write, so instead I wrote about stupid things like squished boob and how much I hate TV and it's dirty, filthy lies.

And, for the record and while we are on the lies of television, my Mrs Butterworth syrup has never spoken to me. Not once.

I'm going to go do laundry now.

On day three of my inability to speak or move with any authority. Still sick. Feverish. It's weird. I never get sick. Not like this, anyway.

Well, while I'm nailed to the couch I'm catching up on horror films I should have seen years ago. USA network is a great one for that, especially in October when most basic cable station seem to feel it's their duty to show inexpensive horror movies from about five or so years back. In the last few days I've seen HALLOWEEN 5 more times than I'd like to admit. Right now I'm watching FRAILTY. Good, sweet mamma-jamma: this is a fucked-up flick. It reminds me a great deal of a short story by Neil Guiman (or however he spells his name) about VanHelsing's sons. Only extra fucked up. Next up on the schedule seems to be THE SKELETON KEY, which promises to be much sillier and with more traditional jump-y parts.

I really love horror genre stuff. These movies are extra fun. It's like riding a roller coaster: scary, but part of you knows you're safe; so you can just sit back and enjoy the rush. And the doubt that you really are safe at all.

Plus there is the touch of legend to horror films. They all come up with their own logic, their own mythos. It's closer to the original type of story telling than any other sort of movie. It's oral tradition. Even if you haven't seen the movies, you know about Michael Meyers. These are morality tales. They're historical record, in a way. The movies of the time catalog the specific fears of the time. What were they scared of in the fifties? Watch their horror films. The aliens represent difference and change, someone coming in to destroy the ideal of mom and apple pie. Et cetera.

Or maybe I'm on too much cold medicine.

Huh. This movie is messed up. And much better than I thought it would be.

My cold has reached the phlegm-y and surreal portion of its progress. I can't sleep but I'm not particularly awake, my cough has dropped to the bottom of my lungs... and I'm apparently overly emotional. I've been playing with Hulu a great deal over the last couple of days and have discovered a thing called "Glee." It's probably not something I should be watching. Especially in my current weakened state. I don't really want to get into it, but I only recently regained my ability to breathe after a crying jag brought on by Stereotypical Gay Character kicking an unlikely field goal after a musical dance number.

I shall say no more on the subject and will thank you to do the same.

I know I'm a little better than yesterday. No fever anymore, but my equilibrium seems a tetch iffy. The cough is worse but the headache is better. I'm not contagious anymore (if this is a normal type of cold) but I'm tired and therefore not sure if I should go to the stitch and bitch tonight or just stay home and try to sleep. Or I could sleep at the stitch and bitch. I'm sure it won't be the first time a woman has fallen asleep over her knitting.

Oy. Enough. The dogs want out and I should shower. What is it about illness that makes the desire to bathe increase tenfold. I suppose it could be something about the sweating and mucus and such. Ew. Pretend I said nothing.

Sick now. Sort of. Almost. Fever and sore throat. And a headache. I'd normally just ride it our, but I know two people with mono and there's all that bird/pig/bear/cat/frog/hippo flu stuff going around, so I'm off tomorrow and hoping to see a doctor in the afternoon. Of course, I'm also hoping the dirt fairy will show up and clean my house. And that a "money tree" isn't just a trite and over-used metaphor. So we'll see.

In other news, I have a new secret boyfriend. Excuse me, a Secret Boyfriend. You know, a dude you know that you think is dreeeaaaamy but one or the both of you is unavailable and you don't like-like him you just like him and think he's dreeeaaamy? And you're too old to call it a "crush?" That Secret Boyfriend. I'm considering telling his wife that I've daydreamed about leaping upon him like some frothy puma.

Nah.

So, two of the four (maybe five) reviews for the show came out today. They were both "meh" reviews. Three-of-five stars. One thumb up. That sort of thing. I have the terrible position of being both in a show which got half-panned and of (oh lord and saints watch over us) agreeing with everything those reviews said.

I'm a terrible person.

It's not that I hate the show or hate the theatre or the people or anything. I have no hate. There is no hate here. No. Hate. A great deal of love, in fact. So much love that I can see something for what it is and love it anyway, as opposed to loving my idea of something that might someday be. Or something. Look, I've just been saying for months that the script had problems, the show went on too long, and our lead had some problems with the drama, him being a comedic actor and all. And that's preeeeety much what they said, too. I also agree that all the technical aspects are spectacular and the supporting cast a dynamo of cheerful and unflinching awesomeness, which is ALSO what the reviews said. Basically.

So now I have to sigh and suck it up. I must stand and strap on my helmet and go to the theatre for the show tonight and lie my fat Irish ass off. Feign indignation at what MUST be an insult to ourselves, the theatre and to our collective mothers, disguised as a so-so theatrical review. Or I couls just awknowledge that I saw them and say nothing. Not join the conversation. I could do that,too.

I think of the placebo version of this Kate Bush song as the "emo panties remix." But I love it none the less.



Also a sort of "emo panties" version of the old alt-indie-rock thing that Oasis gave us back in the 90's. However, I really think this is the way it should have been done.



This is a Soulive and Dave Matthews cover of a fantastic Ani Difranco song. Sort of a smooth jazz version, but one that I wicked-dig.



This one is by The Gourds with Hank Williams III. I can't even begin saying how much I love this cover. So I won't.



I sincerely hope I just introduced you to Richard Cheese. Hilarity insues.

So. I have the annoying problem of having some neat story to relate, but I'm legally not allowed. I don't know if I'm allowed to say I'm not allowed. I think I'm allowed to say that I saw something yesterday afternoon which was also seen by other people (though at a different time, it being an event which reoccurred) and which I mentioned casually to someone In Charge who then detained me for several hours until I could tell some very Officially In Charge people what I saw and then sign a thingie saying I did, indeed, see it.

So terribly cloak and dagger. In a boring and bureaucratic way. It's like a Hollywood thriller, only no one is shooting and there is a lot of paperwork.

I missed rehearsal, though. We open next week and I missed rehearsal. I couldn't help it, but I feel like shit anyway. I seem to have grown a great deal more responsibility with this show than merely acting in it. Costumes and make up and such. Not all of it, of course. This was a costume by committee joint due to the really huge BIGNESS of the production, relatively speaking. Plus, I could really use the practice working with the set and lights. They're tricky for this show. And I felt like I was letting the cast and crew down. Which is stupid, I know, because I couldn't do anything about not being there....still. I don't do this. I have no problem calling off of work: I have plenty of personal time to burn and, well, it's work. But I never call off of rehearsals. One just does not call off of theatre.

Pretentious, no?

So I wonder who will play me in the movie adaptation of my totally awesome criminal adventure. I'm calling for Angelina Jolie in a fatsuit; who's coming with me?

This could open the door to a shit storm, so any reactionaries and all of the non North American Continent folk out there I am begging you: let me finish first, okay?

I had to preface, because I once about a year ago tried to have this conversation with a group of friends in a chat room, about half of whom I have never met in real life, and one of them went off the deep end. "Oh, you fucking white people. You stupid, fucking white Westerners. What's wrong with you?"

So I dropped it because, generally, when people start using expletives and using my apparent race as an argument against something I want or think or say or do, then I know there will be no discussion or listening or debate. The convo is, essentially, over.

So I'm turning it into a monologue. Feel free to either sing along or in dissonance later in the comments (if anyone still reads this crap any more).

I know I live in the per-capita wealthiest country in the world. I know most of us have a good home and access to both schools and doctors. Generally speaking. But I would give up my apparent privilege for a real culture and history. All of it. I would take boarder line poverty or poverty itself if I had a real past or history. If my people really were a People. If we had music of our own. An identity. IDENTITY. North America doesn't have that. The closest we come is Mexico, but they're still, like the US and Canada, a place where explorers came in, raped the locals, killed more locals, and then took over. They sort of fared a little better (culturally speaking) because the Spaniards didn't really try to colonize the way the rest of the European explorers did with the rest of the continent.

The US specifically has no real identity. Culturally speaking, we steal or absorb and are too large for any sort of agreement. We are many thousands of tiny pockets of identity: Little Italy, China Town, Greek Village.... the apartment complexes that are entirely Somalian or the Hispanic sections of the city. Et cetera. But the rest of us? We have.... nothing. Bland thievery.

Take me, for example: I'm Irish. Sure. Largely. But also German. And some French. And there's a smattering of Native American and African. And there's some English. I usually claim Irish because I look the picture of a Black Irish lady, but I'm actually a mutt. Plus, the most recent of us stepped of the boat about eighty years ago, so all the "unique" has been bred out of my line. I also claim Irish because I long for identity. Not that Irish is much better in this part of the country. Everyone around here thinks that being Irish means getting so drunk you throw up and start fights. I have a friend who says she will celebrate St. Patrick's day the way it is usually celebrated when we start celebrating Black History Month by eating watermellon and stealing cars. She says it to show how hateful stereotypes are. But I think some people take it the wrong way. That's people for you.

Anyway: I love travel shows and world music and world history and things like the No Reservations show where the host goes to strange places and talks to common, real people and dances with them and eats with them and smokes with them.... and every time, I notice that things are better there. Despite the poverty levels. Despite everything. Despite the possibility of being murdered horribly by your own government in some places. I KNOW how good I am supposed to have it here. But I still have this longing for something deeper. Something real.

And NO, I don't mean this lame, white American is going to sell everything and move to Brazil or Jamaica or anything. It wouldn't work. I know that. I am doomed to be without culture, history, or identity. Fine. I'm just.... wishing. I'm so very jealous of my friends who are second or third generation Greek, or French, or Venezuelan or Chinese. They have something that I don't have, and can't have. They are more than I am. And I find it sad that I feel that way, too. It's a no win. I realize that.

Feh. Maybe a conversation WOULD have been better. The blathering has gotten all turned-around and confused. I'm giving up. I have a doctor's appointment in half an hour anyway.

While in the car I listen to either NPR or CD101 (an independent station), and at work and other places I either listen to albums or MP3s; I therefore almost never run into new music of any genre.

Maybe I should radio surf more often. Because I did and I found something on one of our local pop stations that I really, really like.

And now I'm inflicting it on you.

You're welcome.

Of course, things being what they are, everyone but me will have already heard it and dismissed it. Such is life. Don't judge me for being outdated and out of touch: I listen to NPR.

The actual video for this is very fun, too. I just saw it on YouTube when I went to get something to put up here so you could hear this song. Unfortunately, the embedding has been turned off for the real video, so here is a lyrics video. Not that it's important. I just wanted you to hear it. So here you go.

You know that place where you are so tired that you feel nauseated and surreal? Where you are not only physically exhausted but emotionally weary and becoming irritated because you know this feeling probably won't stop until you either A)suddenly and miraculously become independently wealthy, allowing you to cease working in a demoralizing, drudge-o-riffic job, B)tell your club/organization/hobby/second job to go fuck itself, thereby freeing up the hours of four and ten-thirty in the evening during the week and 80% of all hours on the weekends, or C)drop dead, thereby finding the cool comfort of no one asking you for anything or of you being obligated to do anything or take care of anything whatsoever.

Of course you do. Everybody does. Everyone has either been there or at least has seen it on the horizon through binoculars. And the knowing of that is the only reason I'm not wallowing in whiny, self-centered despair or talking it out or whatever else any more than two short paragraphs in a place no one ever looks anymore. It's sort of difficult to complain about being unhappy and frustrated and tired when you realize you are neither unique or special and it's something everyone is going or has gone through. No one cares, this is not new, if other people have done it so can you. Not special, not unique.

So shut up and go to work.

Oops: three paragraphs. Damn. Four paragraphs. Sort of. Does a single line count as a paragraph, technically? I mean, there is a change of ideas and a line break. I ought to know this, I was a literature major. Grammar is broadly included.

Damn. Now I'm confused as well as tired and ill. And whiny. AND I seem to have gone to five paragraphs.

I'd better go. DAMNIT! Six paragraphs. Grrrrr.....

Good God. I mean... good God. Colorado got five inches of snow yesterday. Okay, so, it sort of makes sense in that it is now the end of September and Colorado is a mountainous, chilly place known for skiing and football and hate-crimes (though admittedly only one of those things has much to do with snow); AND that state is all the way on the other side of the country from the state in which I currently live so I ought not be concerned.... but still. STILL. I am as yet unprepared for ice and drifts. The afternoons here continue to be in the high seventies and low eighties and muggy. My air conditioner just kicked on, and I have it set for seventy-seven degrees.

And it is not as though we are someplace tropical. This is Ohio. In September.

I am still taken aback. By this whole "snow" thing. I'm sure it will be lovely when it gets here. Just so long as it gets here in the correct season.

In other news: I finished a first-draft on a terrible, jarring play through whose heart I will need to drive a stake; I finished Hoof 2.0 with a gross of fake fur and black duct tape; I have lost one and gained two medications, bringing me up to four and making my medicine cabinet just this side of ridiculous; I have made a vow to die my hair the day this show closes. I vote green. So far as hair is concerned, I mean. I made the mistake of voting Green once. Once.

I feel awful. Yesterday I attended a meeting at which I managed to both embarrass and contradict myself as well as confuse the issue. Instead of being comforted or energized, the whole thing made me seriously wonder why I was there.

Also I had terrible dreams last night. I don't remember what they were, but that's besides the point. I just woke up frightened and with that heightened-senses state that happens to mammals when they are in danger. So I'm going to guess it was bad.

Also I think I ate something I should have not because my stomach is feeling all roil-y.

I am apparently four pounds of "whiny" in a two pound sack today.

I can feel my sense of humor trying to sneak back in under the door. It's telling me that I need to relax more and to not worry because people already know that I am a combination of passionate and bewildered so there is no need to be embarrassed. It's saying that the dreams are probable stress-related and owing to my delight in horror stories and films. It's telling me that practicing what I preach dietary-wise would probably clear up my re-occurring case of Yucky Digestive System.

All these things are true. But sometimes I think I need to indulge in a good, mopey whine. I think it keeps me from doing something more irritating and drastic and less helpful.

Or maybe I'm just justifying bad behaviour because I don't feel like changing. Either way.

I should go to work now.

It just occurred to me: when I was preparing to take that camping trip in central Missouri in June, almost everyone I mentioned it to all sucked air through their teeth and told me that the weather in MO is really awful at that time of year. It WAS pretty damn awful weather, actually; what with storms and humidity and such.

But how did they know?

I'm educated. I'm not totally out of touch or behind the times or living in a cave or functionally retarded or anything. I had no idea about the weather patterns in Missouri. Not a clue. At no point in my schooling or previous travels did anyone lean over a desk or lectern or bar-top and impart to me the meteorological truths about that specific portion of the Midwest.

No one dropped any knowledge, so I therefor failed to pick any up.

So how did they know? All I knew about the place before hand was it was the area in which both St Louis and Neil Gaiman were located. It's Missouri. As with almost every other state in the union, who really thinks about it save the people already living there?

Everyone but me, apparently.

This is just another case supporting my paranoid supposition that I must have missed some sort of really significant info-dump as some point in time. There just seem to be a lot of these relatively insignificant tidbits of fact or knowledge floating around that EVERYONE knows but me. I've heard of being missing from school on a day when they taught something specific, but this is ridiculous.

Ah, so here am I : paying for my sins.

I had the day off yesterday. It was one of my euphemistically monikered "cost savings days" which are now required by my employers. Like most of the rest of this country, the state government here is a'broke-broke-brokity-broke. And, as one of their attempts to save money, the fellows at the top have done some things that are really..... well, let's just say they've done some stuff I wouldn't have done but, in their position, I do not know what else I could have done or done differently. It's a bad situation. Everything got cut: from parks to health care to education and, of course, civil servants such as your humble and civil servant here. They cut my health insurance and made it more expensive, they froze hiring, promotions, and raises, they messed with out retirement, and they gave me a pay cut in the form of furlough days. It comes out to about a 3% pay cut and ten days per fiscal year that I just don't show up for work.

I have a whole frickin' rap on that crap, but it's not really what I wanted to be the crux of this post so I'm going to hold it. Suffice to say: I was not at my job yesterday.

Then so here am I: paying for my sins.

I should have used yesterday to my advantage. Run errands, perform household chores, TCB, et cetera. Instead I wasted my day off having a day off. I lounged on the couch playing video games. I lounged in the back yard in the sun with the dogs. I lounged on the front porch with a book and a glass of lemonade. I lounged in my bed surrounded by fluffy blankets and surfed the internet with Squee-cat. I is a world-champion lounger, me. And then, as you know, I forced Best Belove'd to take me on a date. The arm twisting was mighty, as you can imagine.

I am now in between loads of Things Which Need Be Placed In Other Things For The Purpose of Cleaning, and have just finished sweeping and mopping, so I have a couple of minutes to whine about it on the web. I kid. I'm not whiney. Actually, I feel great. Fantastic Voyage is on the telly and the dogs are not fighting and I'm drinking thick, black coffee with real cream. I'm about to go upstairs and gently wake Best Belove'd. Then I'll finish chores and go to the theatre and perform. And that will be good, too.

Watch as Girl and Best Belove'd go on A Date! Thrill to the adventure of a Large, Very Rare Steak! Swoon to the Thrill of Used Book Shopping and Arcade Shoot-Em-Up Video Games! HOLD YOUR BREATH WHILE THE HEART-STOPPING EXCITEMENT OF A REAL MOVIE IS VIEWED IN A REAL MOVIE THEATRE!

And then roll your eyes while I try to figure out how the hell to get us back to The Village from Bethel road without using the now mostly-defunct 315. Oy, but that construction is both irritating and ill-timed.

We has gone on a date. Hee hee, and all like that. I had a frozen alcoholic beverage at dinner. Such a rebel am I. When he got home from work this evening, I told Best Belove'd in no uncertain terms that we were going out tonight. I gave him a couple of options but "sitting at home" was not one of them. I used firm language and a face of stone. And whining. I used whining. And also the vague, implied suggestion of possible future naughtiness.

So, threats and obnoxiousness and lewd offers all done with, we went and had a lovely steak dinner, then leisurely browsed a delightful second-hand book store (where we bought about $70 worth of books), and then we murdered zombies in a very excellent and skillful way in a two-person shooting arcade game, and finally we saw a really fun movie that I'd been wanting to drag him to for ages (and he liked it! Score!). We had not been on a real date in ages. Oh, we had gone out to dinner, and we have been to the theatre to see productions that I wasn't in... that sort of thing. But we hadn't been out like this in years. Not since we moved in here, at any rate. It was very, very nice. I like Us. Very much I like Us. But tonight I remembered that Us can be fun as well as companionable and communicative and loving and silly and all that other good stuff. I think we had been missing fun.

Chris is done with the dogs and it's time for bed. I have filled my fun quota for another year and now can go back to doing laundry and going to rehearsals with no regrets.

"I don't know about you, but fed up with realism. There's enough reality already; why make more of it? Why not leave realism for the memoirs of drug addicts, the histories of salt, the biographies of porn stars? Why must we continue to read about the travails of divorced people or mildly depressed Canadians when we could be contemplating the shopping habits of zombies, or the difficulties that ensue when living and dead people marry each other? We should be demanding more stories about faery handbags and pyjamas inscribed with the diaries of strange women. We should not rest until someone writes about a television show that features the Free People's World-Tree Library, with its elaborate waterfalls and Forbidden Books and Pirate-Magicians. We should be pining for a house haunted by rabbits."

Finally caved last night around one-thirty in the morning and turned on the air-conditioning. It has been hotter, and it has been more humid, but I think last night, in my house at least, it was the most dreadful combination of the two in over a year. It was straight-up nasty in here. Even with both ceiling and floor fans going and the windows all open to catch the slight breeze. I felt like I was covered in some sort of film and my heart was beating weirdly. Straight. Up. Nar-stee.

I probably could have eventually dealt with it; Chris seemed to be dealing with it: he was snoring. But we have two dogs, two guinea pigs, and a cat; three of which really will fall over and die if they get too warm (the pigs and the pug, specifically). And the other two beatly beasts were very uncomfortable, too, so far as I could tell. When I got up, Squee-cat was draped over the sink, looking for all the world like she had melted. The labrador was sprawled on the kitchen floor with her head in the water bowl.

Not good.

So, I turned the AC on and cranked it all the way down to a shocking 78 degrees. It doesn't sound particularly cool, but it has sucked most of the moisture out of the air and, along with help from the ceiling fans, it has become livable. Especially compared to outside. When I let the dogs out to pee an hour ago it was like walking into a wall. A disgusting, oppressive wall made out of hot, wet diapers. It feels GREAT in here in comparison.

Part of me is hyperventilating over how much money I'm bleeding away right now. It's not like Chris and I are swimming in the dough right at the moment. But I don't see us keeping the air on for much more than a couple days. Just long enough to keep the animals from becoming deceased... and just long enough for my neurotic-ass to go into full-guild-mode over being so privileged as to even have AC to begin with.

I should go to work now. speaking of "straight-up nasty."

I'm wearing a huge fucking happy hat today.

No, it's not that bad.

It's worse.

No, no; I'm sorry. Not "worse." What's wrong with me? Children are starving in .... well, everywhere and I'm unhappy about being tired and irritated and hating my job?

I don't care. This sucketh like the Hoover of doom.

I DO care. Sorry.

I'm going to be late. I should have already left, but I really don't feel like it. It's not just hating my job. I also can't find my shoes. I haven't looked very hard, admittedly; but I nonetheless can not go in barefoot. Also, I'm afraid of driving on the highway at this time of day.

Go on. Laugh.

The rush-hour drive in the evening is okay. Depending on where you are coming from things are either stop-and-go or very slow. (Unless you take what I call the Overland Route right through the city. Man, but that is like playing the worlds slowest video game ever. Sure, everyone is only doing thirty miles and hour, but they're doing it bumper-to-bumper on relatively narrow streets and none of them know which lane they want to be in, so as soon as the space of a Mazda opens up you have four Ford Explorers trying to fit into it. Nightmare.)

No, I hate and am scared of the morning commute. Please bear in mind that, while I got my drivers license at the usual time, and have owned a few cute little cars along the way, I didn't have a car for a long time. From about the time I moved away from Columbus right up to a few months ago when I bought the Malibu. I haven't driven very much. So someone my age is supposed to take the morning comute in stride. But I don't probably due to a lack of practical experience.

I'm really bothered by it. I can't even tell you. Every one is going too fast and whipping in and out of the lanes and tailgating and cutting each other off and being generally rude and unsafe. I have arrived at work every day this past week with muscle cramps from gripping the steering wheel and a light head from being unable to breathe for most of the way. I really, really HATE that the powers that be moved me way the hell up to the northside. I liked it downtown. It was close. There were restaurants. I was less likely to be shot. And I didn't have to use the highway.

I said you could laugh. I know how ridiculous I sound.

I'd better go.

Not feeling particularly verbose today. Or really for the past couple. I have the queer sensation that my vocabulary is leaking out my ear. I am continually squashing the notion to stuff a cottonball up there to stem the flow. Staunch the wound. Brain wound.

I guess it's good. My language is failing me just in time for me to play a mime.

I sort-of wish I was kidding.

Quintessential Roulette opens this weekend. Because of the rotating nature of the nights of programing, and the fact that the particular one-act play I am in is scheduled on night "B", I will be performing this Friday, then next Saturday, then Thursday, then the following Friday, and then the last Saturday of the month we are at the theatre all day doing all the shows right in a row without stopping except for that one time we stop around 6pm-ish so everyone can go eat.

I may be losing my words, but I apparently have scheduling down.

I should go to work. I guess.