tavie.com

No blog yesterday make Tavie something something.

Back at work. Missed yesterday. No one's commented. Waiting for assload of boring crap to print out so I can type it into boring computer.

Voice back, slightly froggy but feelin' fine.

I'm fatter than hell. I mean, I'm feeling it. Last night I just lay in my bed feeling my weight press into the mattress. I think I have some sort of psychological disorder that I badly need help with. The only thing that could get me to sleep was slow, repetitive stroking of soft kitty-cat cuddled up under my arm. (Thank you, Rosie.) Must reread Zen and the Art of Archery, reacquaint myself with the principles of detachment and the mental excercises for obtaining freedom from the oppression of a constructed reality. Or else, must buy "Tetris" for Gameboy ASAP, as I believe it works along the same principles (repetition of falling blocks until mind is free to transcend oppressive reality.)

I'm reading two of my Christmas presents now, but find that I can only take Margaret Atwood (a gift from Kitana) to bed with me. David Sedaris (a gift from Tante Joan) is wonderful but he makes my nerves jangly and frazzled. Reading about his obsessive-compulsive tics give me sympathy tics, make me jumpy, make my nerves buzz. He's hilarious, too, which doesn't put me in the sleep-y mood.

Very cold outside and in. Our apartment is like an icebox. Only the living room and my parents' room can be heated-- poorly, what is wrong with this picture?-- because Kirsten's and my room is so full of crap that if we turned the heat on something would surely catch fire and burn us all in our sleep. This coupled with our clumsily-installed air-conditioner (making for chill-seeking cracks) makes our room an icebox at night. No fun to get out of bed into that, either.

But office, nice and warm. Warrrrm. Wearing dreamberry sweater Erica gave me last Christmas. Soft and cozy.

Oh, work's printed. Blah.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:02 AM | shower me with attention