Me: Those little bowls are for condiments.
Jane: Of the house?
Christmas was pleasant, as it canonically is supposed to be. I was I think only once compelled to refer to it as "Fuckwad" (merry fuckwad). Sweets were made, presents were exchanged, carols and murder ballads were sung, friends and family joined in pleasing harmony, et cetera.
Now the semester is about to begin, the really-truly winter has arrived and with it its associated Stockholm Syndrome reactions (today it is THIRTY-SEVEN DEGREES FARENHEIT, break out the sundresses), and I have a nice lingering racking cough to go with it. Jane thinks it is all pretty swell
at least by day. The cold dark of early nightfall she still considers pretty objectionable, and really who can blame her? Certainly not I.
Lord, what little I have to say and how mundanely I manage to say it! I will try to scrounge up something more entertaining soon if only to stop boring myself, though it will have to be about something pretty dull at its core because that's all I've got going. Options that leap not-so-enticingly to mind include: drips, itchy hands, poorly-bound books, instant soup, piles of objects, dust in the corners, expensive face cream, inadequate baby lotion, jersey shirts (the dowdiness/disintigrating nature of), hair static, antihistamines, reading the same books over and over because they are the ones already in the bedroom, feeling like a jerk, how annoying the disappearing scroll bar is in OS 10.7, and sweet potatoes. Don't you want me to get started right away?
PS. Do not break out the sundresses.