Apollo serenades, Hermes promenades

It's an odd thing, thinking that staying up 'til dawn talking with someone necessarily means there's a legitimate connection.

Attraction, sure. But, sex doesn't translate into ties between the lives of others.

I mean, I got what I wanted, and the lack of expectation is liberating, but there seems to be a forced awkwardness, as if after making out, I'm set up to get territorial over the front porches.

Lay say fair

French pronounce words stay up late.

Get the vowels in order for internet radio.

taffy

lazy.
chewy.
sunday.
rain.

Bad hangover
C said I should not drink whiskey.

Sometimes she's off and sometimes she's on.

She was off.
Rum=worse.

irony can't be ironic, can it?

It would seem that the flowers I initially thought were lovely rain blossoms...from the plant Douche threw in the mini pond to clear up algae is really a dangerously invasive plant species that is essentially a vine for the water. It grows in exponential numbers and makes life below the surface very difficult.

I changed my mind about the flowers a few days ago, but I'm not surprised to hear they're so bad for the local environment. Douche is a fan of collecting carniverous plants and either collects endangered species or takes care of illegal specimens (and wouldn't you know it, they are definitely not the kind one can consume).

here is a picture... I didn't want to use photobucket because I don't want the damn flower messing up my revitalized blog.

On the other hand, I did see a real rain lily the other day...

How to be a hypocrite at home

Ultimately, I feel at such an impasse today.

How to be a hypocrite in Gainesville.

Step one: Eat vegetarian dinner on styrofoam plate.

Step two: Bike to computer labs through sprinkler system despite the days rainstorm.

general objective: renew sense of purpose with Classic and destroy new philosophy by taking 10 minutes out of day and talking shit about local anarchist bicycle punk/hippie with spookishly adorable girlfriend surgically attached to his penis that criticizes the people who have to work for the man to make a living while doing so comfortably on his parents' dollar.


back to Microsoft word, with which I am currently processing words, on the stunning Mac OS X.

wonder why the fuck this town needs more cyclists on track bikes riding home wasted from the downtown bars late at night, while criticizing those who drive home from mid-town in the same condition.

not quite dying

I guess reading Marcus Aurelius makes the fact that my [series of expletives] air-conditioner doesn't work a bit more tolerable...since it would seem to be a function of the universal will. Whatever, I'm calling the landlord about it.


I'm still in need of a serious discussion, but yesterday's lunch was had with way too much camraderie to bring up the things that need serious discussion. Shit. I wish I could say the things that bother me when I think about it all too much. And then when I stop thinking about it, it makes sense.
As a member of that paritcular gender, I suppose his actions are natural.
But, I'm confused he wouldn't live for something more...and not necessarily myself, but something beyond what he knows so well.

Ex

The Letter X is a pretty sad letter as far as Mitch Hedburg and I are concerned.

lame-core

are you hot?


All in all, probably the least stressful family extravaganza I've ever experienced. It was, honestly, fun.

Dancing, drinking, eating, merriment, picture taking, future planning, totals in so much so much so much so much perfect.

Saw Prairie Home Companion avec maman and zee girls. I liked it. No major complaints. It was like watching an episode that you'd usually listen to.

Now, I wait for Hazel.

Finished the Welsh novel. Mmm. I speculated the ending from a mile away, but as the plot progressed, I put my theory on the back burner. The way in which the resolution came out was.....trite....but it was a noble effort on Irvine's part. His first forray into magical realism.

I call it Drug Literature.

Queztal's acting demonic. I let her out of her cage earlier and she started pushing pictures off the top shelf of the desk.

I'd call her a bitch, but she's a bird.

Whoaley Moley

It's been too long since I've let this blog become overrun with pesky spam.

It's time to weed out the comment spam and revitalize what was once Bad teenaged poetry.

I have a new sense of meter and purpose. Life continues to go on.

What do you do for a living?