Well, I'm bored and cranky and too tired to write properly. I wrote for a few hours yesterday. That translates to about one or two paragraphs. Dear God in Heaven I'll never get done these books at this rate. But you know, it's fruitless to agonize over that when as soon as one is done, there's another just festering under the surface waiting to burst out all over the place like some kind of infected pustule. Nice simile, eh? Yeah, Phoebe. Your writing is like pus. Not puss, right? If I spelled it Puss, that would be like Puss N Boots and my writing is not like that. I don't even remember what that story was about. I'm OLD now, really freakin' old. But I finally got rid of my old Volvo and that's a miracle. It was still driving at 430,000 miles. Sad to see it go really. Sad to give up a car that still drove. My uncle is right. There should be graveyards for good old cars that serve one well. Oh well. My new car is super high tech and so perfect it frightens me a little. I'll be okay though. It too will get old and unreliable. And then I'll feel quite comfortable!
I want to go to a play because I am so bored, bored, bored. Maybe the one about Freud and C.S. Lewis. I read the Screwtape Letters when I was little and really liked it. There were imps, I think. I forget. And of course, we all love Narnia. --The Beckett play would probably be good, too. I need an infusion of something halfway intellectual in my life or I'm going to go stark raving mad. Mad, I tell you, mad. Mad as a hatter. I think they went mad because of chemicals or glue or something involved in the hat-making industry? I wish I could travel back in time and spy on milliners in some old hat-shop. I mean, I can't watch Project Runway until it's up on the web so. . . . I want to dream of milliners making fancy hats with feathers tonight. . . .