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May 26th, 2017

 

They didn't let us leave early today.

Most folks did anyway.  Plus I'm working late, to make up some time.

The heaviness of a pending holiday weekend has just kinda plopped itself down on top of me.  Or piled itself on in layers, over the last hour or two.

It's not that I so much would like the hamburger cooked outside among the people maybe with side dishes and too much sun.  I mean I probably would like that hamburger plenty.  Maybe there'd be onion slices with all their little concentric sorta-circles, and ketchup in a squeeze bottle, and the kinda wet freshness on the meat that you get, and some cheap 8-to-a-pack buns that are just the ticket on such an occasion, somehow.  But such ideas can't help but stir up what I'm missing.

My friend whose relationship suddenly ended may or may not be going to hang with some of her family on one day or another.  She wants to see the Amy Schumer movie with Goldie Hawn and absolutely terrible reviews.  I guess the premise is "After her boyfriend dumps her on the eve of their exotic vacation, impetuous dreamer Emily Middleton...".  It's not that I haven't gone to many a movie I don't particularly want to see.  And I'm not only into good movies.

Up at the old cinema in Howell, Obit is playing.  I don't suppose I'm likely to sell her on that one.  It's funny, recently she's questioned me on saying I'm weird, suggesting everyone's weird, how am I weird, etc.---this in the context of making connections with new people from gen pop, or queer/lezbo gen pop, or w/e.  I'm pretty sure that, for instance, this decided preference for the doc about obit writers is related to that kind of weirdness.  Anyhow from this spot right here this evening, it seems connected through the solitidunious sticky-outty weirdness.

Maybe I can think of how gloriously good it feels when I do make a connection.  Vs. how rare they are, or (worse) how horrible to lose.

Like maybe it's an up side of being a weirdo.  Like you appreciate it extra much when it happens?  Even if it amps up the excruciation?

I'm not sure that's a word.  The excruciating-ness.  I bet those obit writers know.

Peter's still in the other room.  Ada already came through, cleaning.  We can only talk so much, with a language barrier, she and I, but you can't let that stop ya, you know?  Been playing FB Messenger tag this afternoon-eve with other/RL Peter, peteralway.  Maybe he'd like to go to Howell this weekend for a documentary about obit writers.  He went up there for some other movie with me a while back, like a good egg.

Tonight, tho, it's something for dinner that's not a cooked-outdoors dripping hamburger on a cheap perfect bun, and getting the dog out for a walk again.  Oh, what I said about ticks and Michigan, and it being a good place cuz we hardly ever get those?  Seems that's not so true any more.  They're expected to be nuts, by up-here standards, this year.  Ewwww.  Will I have to start keeping a little bottle of rubbing alcohol and some tweezers to put them into, one after hairy one, plucked from the pooch and sometimes from myself?  Hope not.  Really hope not.

Have a good weekend, reader.


 
 
Janus
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