Nothing Like What I Usually Talk About

It was impossible to sleep last night. Sleep was this hazy beacon on a far shore, taunting me and not letting me acquire its peace. I was the bobbing idiot who forgot how to swim. Therefore I remained in that halfway state for most of the night, turning over every few minutes, not wanting to glance the beaming red numbers telling me it was far past my bedtime, telling me the sun would soon pop the quiet of night. 

Was it because he wasn't there and I was waiting? Even though he had a completely adequate excuse and I understood? The absence of his heavy breathing, his form lying to my right, was that what caused the wakefulness? His cats meandering about, wondering where he was, did that add to it? I was alone in his house, perfectly comfortable, and yet missing the home part. The him part. Perhaps that's why sleep couldn't even have been bought that night. If that is the case, then I feel weaker than ever. 

In the meantime, I'm one of those people who walks out of restaurants still holding the plastic cup I was drinking out of. Right now I'm drinking root beer out of a cup from Fuddruckers. I used to have a collection of odd cups from different restaurants, but a lot of them got lost when my family moved. Ah, well. It's cold out, my excellent buddies. 

Moaners, Composers, & Homicidal Thoughts

At a party this weekend, a line of girls awaited excitedly for their turn in the face painting chair. Needless to say, there was a moaner in the line. A moaner is the equivalent of Kristen Wiig's SNL character, Sue, who gets so excited she just can't keep it in. Moaners, while nothing is wrong with them mentally, must keep making moaning sounds in order to show their excitement. They pace back and forth, moaning, smiling, with a fixed stare at your face. When it was finally the moaner's turn, she asked politely for me to make her a kitty. So I painted her face like a pink kitty and when she saw it in the mirror she released the biggest moan of all and immediately began meowing. A little later on, when it was time for balloons, she was unfortunately near the back of the line. Therefore, I twisted balloons for 20 minutes listening to her meow over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until it was finally her turn again.
As I twisted a balloon into a ladybug for her, she did not stop meowing. She even meowed her thanks. I did not stop hearing meows, in other words her meows strongly persisted, until she went out of the room. Some people just have to moan and meow I guess.

I was chatting with Steef, the rascal over at Conversations with myself, and came to the realization that we always say funny things in a chat but never in our blogs. As might be expected, I don't remember any of the funny things that were said. I do remember my mentioning how obsessed I currently am with listening to Mozart radio on pandora, and that now I know way more about composers than I ever have before and I'm so besotted with them that I literally can't stop listening to them. Also, I found out I have quite the affinity for Johann Bach, and I had no idea who the hoot that was before. Also also, there are a lot of composers with the first name Johann. Johann Bach, Johann Pachelbel, Johann Hummel. If I name my first child Johann, will he/she be a famous composer? I really think about this stuff. 

"I feel I'm somehow being made smarter," I told Steef. "I heard long ago that people who play classical music for their babies end up rearing smarter kids, so maybe it also works with 22 year olds who suck at life."
This was funny during the chat, it isn't now. Don't hold it against me. I don't even know what's going on right now.

But I did just acquire a wonderful red scarf that I crocheted myself. Last year & the year before, I made everyone scarves for Christmas. This year, I made myself one as I sat at The Living Room cafe [sweet-awesome cafe that resembles a living room] and re-read Deathly Hallows [sweet-awesome book that I want to marry illegally]. I've never owned an apple red scarf before, and I feel it's symbolic somehow. I dunno. Maybe I'm gonna kill somebody or something.

Oh yeah, happy December. "I'm gonna give ya the count of 10 to get your lousy, yella, no good keister off my property before I pump your guts fulla lead. One... two... TEN!" What movie, kids. You know it.