Speaking of grotty, here's a PSA. The library doesn't want your moldy encyclopedias from Aunt Misty's basement. The collection you hold in your possession as part of her will, likely thrown together in 1981 by some sweating lawyer named Marv, stinks and is out of date and if, while you are packing it in bags to bring to your library and you find you are holding your breath so as not ingest spores of mold, just throw it away. Ditto for romance novel paperbacks that reek of cigarette smoke. Aside from the fact that they are odoriferous, they make me think of old women in housecoats, drinking sherry in a creaking rocking chair, feet enveloped in thick white gym socks and furry slippers, Wheel of Fortune blaring in the background,chain smoking and ruminating over Fabio's abdominals. Those are not going to be added to the collection. They are disgusting, despite the fact that your Aunt Misty was probably a lovely woman though she could have used your help cleaning the book collection in her basement, you ingrate. After all she did for you!
|No, thank you.|
In other news, the majority of my thoughts have been focused on one person. I'm in the stage of infatuation that tints everything in my world with a strange, but familiar color. But because I don't know him very well at all, because I have had a LOT of time to conjure up the person I think he is and just enough alone time with him to add a dollop of reality to this mold of a person I've invented, all of my thoughts are, in the end, only half formed. Or distorted versions of the original. I'm learning the actual black and white of him very, very slowly. So slowly in fact that I've fashioned my own transparent color sheets to put over the screens.
|That's from this cool website, btw.|
I'm off to go in search of something more simple. A streamlined activity. Late night yoga? Late night french fries? A warm bath? Maybe I should borrow some romance novels from work and smoke in them. I'll let you know what I decide.