037. Returning.


I was rather gung-ho about staying and watching the moon for the whole cycle. Then it was nine o’clock, I’d been there for an hour, and fuckit. There’s a skylight that works too. Birks are not appropriate shoes for lunar viewings in winter. I felt rather cold and unromantic and have been telling anyone who admires the eclipse’s beauty that the damn thing just turned brown. Apples do that too. If I feel nicer, the statement turns into an observation of the lunar lady’s lovely tan.

It other news, the walkingsticks have hatched. They damned things need food and we have no where to go. They’re not even selling potted roses at Wegmans anymore. The plants I’ve raised are sickly, at best. A dormancy period would have helped, but that defeats the point. I dislike the climate here, if for no other reason than it kills the multiflora rosa, the weed-like evergreen thornbush.

Eh. Nothing else to report. Spent a fun day downtown with friends. Need to order certain books online before I go nuts. Must follow the to-do list I put on my door. Find various misplaced objects. Fold laundry. Wait, wut? Erm. Stop my foot from twitching. A muscle keeps jumping and it looks mondo creepy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something inside my foot. Weeeird.


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