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I do not suspect that my house is haunted.
I voted for Peter Camejo in the 2004 presidential primaries because the Democrats have made it impossible for me to vote for a Democrat.
My breakfast comfort food is cinnamon French toast with butter, peanut butter, and jelly.
Our main computer went on the fritz a couple of nights ago and now I donít trust it.
Our DSL provider is Pacbell/SBC Global and lately our connection has been infuriatingly unreliable. If anybody knows of a good, affordable DSL provider in Northern California, please tell me.
Sometimes I wish I had lots of money so I could buy clothes and shoes out of catalogs. I had the idea that I should draw pictures of myself in my dream house, surrounded by all the material possessions I would want most. I'll continue to refine my drawing and painting skills for years until I can competently transfer this vision to canvas. Eventually, I will have a beautiful painting, which seems like a more productive use of my time than all this wistful coveting.
I donít use a washcloth in the shower. I hate when they get left in there or fall down beside the sink and then after a particularly hot day, they can get all crunchy and even start to mildew. Yuck. No thanks.
This one muscle in my shoulder is sort of popping up and down of its own accord, like my eyelid does sometimes. My Mom has some weird superstitious thing she says when that happens, but I canít remember what it is.
I like to listen to this radio station when Iím online, but this afternoon they played a couple of songs (Buffalo Soldier, The Sweetest Thing) that made me worry itís going to get sucky. I donít hate those songs; I just donít particularly want to hear them. Hope it was just a fluke.
Early this morning, I had a vivid dream about Rita from West Hollywood. We were arguing because she had changed her mind about the Republicans and she thought I should, too. I kept telling her I didnít want to like the Republicans, kept trying to disentangle myself from this frustrating argument, but she wouldnít let it go. Rita is someone I hardly know (from personal meetings) and yet also know fairly well (from online stuff) and she is indeed tenacious, though not, as far as I know, turning into a Republican.
For the first decade of my adult life, I refused to wear flip-flops. Then I lived in a place where the summer temperatures routinely topped one hundred degrees, and I changed my mind. I also came around on shorts, which I almost never wore (even when I lived in Florida). But I continued to despise ugly recycled-tire sandals until I was pregnant with the girls. Then I had to break down and get a pair because my feet swelled up to the size of bricks. Now I like them. My fashion inspiration lately is Gertrude Stein.
Today was a perfect day here, weather-wise. But in Madrid, terrorists killed hundreds of people on a train with expertly timed bombs. All I could think was that the U.S. government, my government, like it or not, swore to round up those al-Qaeda guys. Instead, they've spent the last year fucking around with Iraq. Iraq Iraq Iraq Iraq. And now all these Spanish commuters going into the ground. Thousands of Iraqi civilians in the ground.
Everything good that was ever going to happen to these people has already happened. Because there is no afterlife, do you understand? There is no heaven, there is no paradise, and there are no black-eyed virgins waiting there. That light you'll follow leads into darkness. It doesn't matter who you are; you aren't going to win a trip to Pleasantville. There is only an end to brain activity followed by the slow, inevitable decay of the flesh.