Coma
12 July 1998
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Coma
12 July 1998
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Lazy day. Lazy weekend, as per usual lately. Ended up not going out at all, not to Ska's party on Saturday, not to the bar at all. On the one hand I suppose it's not really too good for me to stay cooped up like this, on the other it can't hurt to spend a few days not drinking and staying out until 2.
Well. Not that I wasn't up just as late as I would have been anyway. But, eh. I like not having to make conversation, or be presentable, or change my t-shirt. My hermit shell's getting thicker every year but damn if it doesn't seem like what I'm going to need to cope with the next 20 years. But let's not think about being 60 *just* yet, shall we?
Uh. Type, type, type. Sorry, book coma. Fortunately the guy at the store speaks Grunt so I can still get sodas and cigarettes. And god knows what language the Little People at the sandwich shop are speaking. Never seen two people play Ms. Pac Man with such intensity. Maybe they're receiving instructions from the home world.
Just been re-reading some of the Honor Harrington books by David Weber. Weekends are no time for literature. I need to be in a sturdier frame of mind to tackle anything with depth. These books I read like drugs, because, really, that's what they are. Linear stories about people overcoming difficulties. It re-orders my neurons after a week of work has made Chef Brain-Ar-Dee out of them.
Certainly I'm escaping into a fantasy world and avoiding my problems. Duh. Besides, honestly, my biggest "problem" is that my apartment looks like it's been ransacked. (It ought to, it has been, several times. By me. Hard to find things sometimes, you know how it is.) That indicates a certain sloppiness of mind, I know, but it's not like that's not true. And it's hardly the end of the world in any case. Just a big ol' messy bachelor with stubble and green hair.
Er, not to protest too much or anything. I just don't think this is my year to be an interesting person. But I'm sure everything will be better once I get a haircut.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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