Awakening on a couch more comfortable than my bed to the cats running, it's cold outside, and maybe it's the artificial sweetener accidentally ingested making my head feel foggy, wondering how the brain processes all these things, the physical, the mental, the spiritual because sometimes the little clarity I have is blurred and I mumble and grumble incoherently to God as I sit up and realize the sun's already risen but it's not all that late.
I tried to play guitar last night, between the ringing of the phone, couldn't find it in me to be social to do anything functional as the Paper From Hell's day of reckoning gets closer, someone knocked on the door and scared me last night but it was just the kid across the street. I felt bad, but I didn't want to open the door either.
But the sun is out, and I will go in pursuit of coffee and relating and being, wondering how I let a little Lanegan/Patton jam pass me by the first time around.
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Bet Larouche, under the behest of the Bilderbergers, spiked those almonds as part of a fiendish plot to collect our bodily fluids.
♪I am the Antisocialite
It's what I was meant to be
This couch left me behind
And set my soul to be free♫
When you figure out how it's all processed, let me know, I'm willing to pay cold, hard cash (well, I have some nickels) for the answer.
http://www.kqed.org/a/forum/R201111111000
the Paper From Hell
The Plain Dealer? Or something less local?
~
DOH! I'd read your prior post, but that was like last year or something.
Your Paper!, he intoned.
~
http://lauraoldfieldford.blogspot.com
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