06.16.05

Gads, my life is boring. I've been looking back through the last couple of weeks' entries. Ugh. It's bad enough to need the constant reassurance of my own words, but to be bored by 'em? Ugh, I say, and ugh.

It must be time for some new experiences. I wonder what they'll be? I hope they're fun. Not adventures, they're never fun while they're happening. Even if they make great stories later. For example, my Jumping Over the Wrong Wall in Morocco story; scared, wanted to piss me britches, nervous during; worth a good dinner now.

(Ooo, hang on, sudden chill.)Sweatshirt? Oh, sweatshirt. Oof. |pause|
Aaaaaaaaaaaaah. *burp* Pardon me. Aaaaa. It's good to be the only one in the house.

*phone*
Harrumph. HatoKun. Not going to think about it right now.
*phone*
Crap. Manager. ? Oh, thank goodness. I didn't fuck up anything.

Where was I? The lack of interesting things in my life. I've said that only boring people are bored. Oh dear. How horrible to become one's own cliche (imagine that it has the proper accent, I'm too lazy to look up how to put it in).

The machines and paper gods are demanding blood sacrifice again. Or there's a link between menstruation and clumsiness. I don't know. I've gotten five really awful paper cuts in the last couple of days. No amount of lotion seems to help. Plus, if I use too much, I'll keep getting {insert name of large, local healthcare provider here}'s work all goopy. Bad.

When I was in the knife store, months would go by without injury. Then, for a couple of days or weeks, it'd be slicety-slice, chop-chop-chop all over the place. I'd go home with bandages on every finger; sometimes there were two. We blamed it on the cutlery gods. That they demanded blood sacrifice every so often, and would not be denied. Yeah, I've been cut on the hands so many times that my skin (in some places) looks like grid paper.

I remember the spectacular accidents. The night of my botched attempt to de-fingertip myself; a.k.a.: How to empty the packed women's room in a popular nightclub. Hey, Stupid Customer! There's blood dripping down my arm! When Swiss Army knives attack. The day of the boy scouts. The "Don't fuck with violent people" incident. Okay. I didn't hurt anyone or anything in that last one. It's just a great story. 1980s. DC nightclub. And what happens to men who grab my crotch without a proper invitation. Ah. Memories.

(How the hell did I end up with a verbally and emotionally abusive husband? I still say I was drugged.)

Re-reading Woe is I. Enraged, no, somewhat peeved, to discover that I've fallen back into bad grammatical habits. These sentences being proof. Am taking Italian practice of omitting pronouns when obviously talking about self. Can be viewed as pretentious. Hope not. Oh well. I'll have to read and re-read the dang books until I've got them memorized. Whee! Only problem being that I'll read all of the variations (Chicago, AP, etc.), then drive myself mad trying to reconcile all the discrepencies and memorize all of the exceptions.

Dang. I'm all sound and fury but no substance today. I'll quit before I really foul things up.

You. Go on, you fabulous thing you.
*mwah!*

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