It is late and I have been trying to write. If I write thirty-two pages of utter nonsense, does it get me a coupon for a free mint TGIF or anything?
Speaking of, I am craving salt. It’s funny that you can’t satisfy a salt craving by eating salt but rather only by eating other things totally slathered in salt. Grease wouldn’t go amiss, either. I could murder a pile of onion rings right now, which are of course the last thing in the universe my heart or the rest of me actually needs.
The first thing in the universe my heart or the rest of me actually needs is some sleep but that’s not coming for a few more minutes so consider this to be a seriously missed opportunity to get a jump on good health.
The counter is lined with cute little jars, except for one big one with a large metal scoop which is full of rice. If you cook rice right, it doesn’t quite stick together but it doesn’t quite stay separate, either.
That’s the zen of rice.
Cognac is like a posh kind of brandy. I think. I’m not actually sure. I don’t have any idea about that kind of stuff, I suppose in my conceit I think it’s for the bourgeois.
Mythomaniacs do it better.
Sociology is for lovers.
My other car is a Fiat.
I break for turnstiles that lock me out because of expired metrocards.
Tora! Tora! Tora!
My laptop has a touchpad in addition to a trackpoint, which is why I keep accidentally tapping my cursor around to other windows in the middle of my paper typing, which is in turn why tonight I got a hammer and put it with full force through the center of the closed lid, spraying liquid crystal and shards of broken keys and plastic everywhere in the kitchen.
But sometimes the touchpad annoys me.
Christmas is really lovely. I wish I had more time to enjoy it, rather than sitting here writing papers all night. Also, I’ve realized that I have rather a large number of poetry volumes. Well, maybe not relative to a poet laureate or the New York Public Library, but relative, for example, to anyone who has no poetry volumes at all.
It would be very nice indeed to sit down and read poetry for the next fifteen or so days until Christmas. That is not, however, likely to happen at all. In any way.
But Christmas is really lovely nonetheless.
And we are gonna go ice skating.
And now I am gonna go to bed because otherwise this damned stupid post will go on even farther, which must not be allowed to happen.