My Pet Skeleton

The Myst obsessee in me could sit and listen to the background sounds of this site without so much as a single pretty line to look at.

Luckily, I don't have to. Vincent Marcone does a lovely job of sculpting his black and gray pixels into what seem to be dreamlike snapshots of bad memories. They're unnerving and comforting, like ghost stories and that beheaded doll you keep in your dresser drawer.

Last night, I stood on the shore with the ghost of my 17th year and ate pears as the twilight waves lapped at the broken concrete.

My dreams are weird. Visit My Pet Skeleton.

Wednesday.

"It's raining again," she said, just to hear the sound of someone talking.

"Huh," he replied in the uneasy half-chuckle he used as a multi-purpose response and looked out over the trembling surface of the water.

Beyond the tethered boats, a fog hesitated at the tips of the gray mountains that lined the lake. His fingers twitched restlessly, and after surveying the drowned parking barriers, he spoke again.

"If it continues like this, we may have a few more feet by next week."

Fear and loathing.

Oh fun! There's that dread I always feel creeping in as I ready for bed to wake up for another day of self-imposed indenture.

One day, at work, I'm going to slam my head into the corner of the counter and split my scalp open. I wonder if self-mutilation brought on by the psychological trauma of being at work qualifies for workman's compensation. Hmmm...

I own a house.

The thing I never thought would happen...
That I waited so long and desired so fervently...

Happened.
I own a house. I've wanted this for so long that it's hard to make my mind believe that I actually have it.

My very own little piece of land with a 1976 gem of a drywall box sitting on top. It's surrounded by barking dogs and yelling kids, is lined with the kind of lineoleum you thought only existed in your nightmares, and it's missing a back door.

But there's no one above to stomp around, and there's no one below to tiptoe for.
It's mine, from top to bottom.
And that, my friends, makes it beautiful.

Giddy weekend babble.

What?
Yeaaah.

It's Friday, bitches.
Oh my God, it's Friday.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh..... Oh oh oh yeah yeah uh huh just like that.

Ahhh. Workweek release.

What?
Yeaaaaah.

An ode to no one.

I'm unwrapping it still, strangled 'round the branches of these memories - this feeling of being left standing in a doorway, left waiting and wondering. Somewhere down the hallway of where you've gone, I can hear laughter.

And my thumb's twitching on this trigger.

God damn, when does it end?

I'm bursting at the seams with responsibilities and stress. I'm at work (45.5 hours this week), or I'm worrying about house buying, or I'm freaking out about moving, or I'm concerned about the noise we're making on the floor...

And then! I'm at work, and our realtor brings house papers down for me to sign. Stress piled upon freakin' stress.

I mean... what?! What the hell is going on? I like my days to consist of no fewer than five free hours in which I can wander zombified through the house, clicking pictures of the cats, and checking my email every ten minutes.

Where did that go?

AAAGHHHGGHGGGGHHH. [head implodes and oozes onto the keyboar;dlaskdkl;allllllllllllllssssssssssssssssssss]

World On Fire.

And now I feel guilty for watching music videos.
Impressive.

Very admirable =
Sarah MacLachlan - World On Fire

Fuck editing.

I'm not talking about the house until the deal is sealed and I'm holding keys.

Because otherwise, knowing my luck, it will get bought out from underneath us by a clown troupe from Manitoba.

Damn Canadians.

...I really need to think about heading to bed.

The Killers.

Brandon Flowers is a beautiful man. And there's a growing fan base of wristband wearing girlies in plaid skirts echoing those exact words. In general, I have rules against liking bands adored by hoardes of wristband-wearing pretentious "indie" girls.

To be honest, I hated "Somebody Told Me" the first time I heard it, and parts of me still scoff at some of those lines. The more honest (and less nonsensical) lyrics of "Mr. Brightside" and "Smile Like You Mean It" more than make up for them, though. And hey, The Killers are hometown boys, Vegas babies - making them instantly worthy of coddling and cuddling.

And Brandon Flowers is just pretty enough for me to make exceptions to rules...

It's already 9:15?!

So hey.
How's it goin'?