I have a slight headache; I am plagued by the suspicion that somewhere, somehow, I have forgotten to do something; the cats insist on walking all over the keyboard, a trick of which two of them heretofore knew nothing. The newcomer is, of course, to blame.
I made a perfectly lovely salmon dish tonight, (marinated in orange juice, pan seared and topped with a mix of chopped tomatoes, mandarin oranges and mint) and paired it with some lighly sauteed spinach. I ate it, and remembered that I am not, much as I would like to be, enamored of healthy cooking or food that is good for me.
More tilt to my personal worldview: I have not yet written a letter to my father, or my brother, something I wish to do. And yet, I think I would rather be run over by a herd of rabid rhinos than approach the task now.
In 17 days I and my compatriots move to our company's galactic headquarters in There'sNothingNearbyVille. We will be too loud. We will be shushed.
Even Warren Buffet likes the bailout.
Daley is going to sell Midway to a private concern
I still haven't read the classics. I can't pay attention to the printed word long enough to read anything longer than diatribes on Teh Intarweb. My once elegantly incisive command of language is flagging. I write fanfic.
I complain, but without the verve I once had.
I have to clean catboxes regularly. Yes, it's because I have cats, but still. Catboxes.
My heroes are aging. The Clash are no more, the Turtles are the only band that matters, Springsteen's playing the Superbowl half-time show. The Cubs and the White Sox are in the playoffs in the same season for the first time in 102 years. (Wait, that's good....)
The Northwest Passage is passable. Icebergs are beginning to calve with the frighteningly monotonous regularity of Wisconsin Guernseys. There's always a brown line on the horizon. I believe my hair is grey under the red dye. I can't make the high notes anymore. I weigh more than I want to. People refuse to turn off their cell phones at meetings. My mother wants me to find Jesus, and I must remind myself not to suggest that if she lost him, she should find him herself.
Kids are standing on my lawn. Wait, I don't have a lawn.
They don't make movies like that anymore. Obama's too conservative. McCain has no neck. Everybody hates the media. Battlestar Galactica is months away. Christopher Eccleston doesn't act in anything where he lives and/or is happy. People listen to Bill O'Reilly. America gets its news from Stewart and Colbert. I don't like my neighbor across the courtyard, one flight up and one door to the east. You call that music?
I have bunions.
I should vacuum. There's trouble afoot. I use parentheses far too often.
Things are looking glum.
In short, Ennui is sitting on my couch, smoking Gaulois and making disparaging remarks about me, and I can think of no comeback, other than the classic "Yeah? Well fuck you." Which, I am forced to acknowedge, is less than optimal.