Sound; Some torch singer's version of "Am I Blue." I can't figure out who it is. I think it's from Harlem Nights.
Sight; An intimidating blank sheet of paper.
Taste; Espresso in the middle of the night. Not a very wise decision.
Touch; Plucked, waxed, and shaved baby.
Smell; Nag Champa.
To ink or not to ink. Depth charge's revenge. Tom Robbins take on February.
I woke up this morning alone, Adam having gotten up early to help his boss move for some extra cash. I think he would've done it even if money wasn't involved. We also got a assload of power tools that we don't have room for. They will forever reside in the trunk of Adam's car. You never know when a circular saw is going to come in handy on the road.
I had to go in to work, of my own accord. I'm not sure why I even decided to do so. My weekends are sacred, but I figured it would give me more free time at work on Monday to slack off. This will not become common practice, thankfully. I've only been in a couple times since all that bullshit happened.
I jumped at every noise, 15 minutes felt like an hour. It was altogether too creepy and I could hardly stand it. It wasn't even the Barton thing that I was worried about, that didn't frighten me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was strung tighter whore's corset. I got everything that I need done done. Then I got the hell out of there. No need to prolong my adventure in heightened paranoia for any longer than necessary. I could've done more, but I'll need to have something to make me look busy Monday morning.
So the rest of the day was spent cleaning. It wore my ass out, but apparently not as thoroughly as I had thought. Here I sit at the computer at 4:55 am. Adam brought home espresso at 11:00, along with some Thai. The combination of the two was some sort of speedball, because I'm still miles from sleep. Adam fell out on the couch at about 11:45. It feels like 10 minutes ago. I didn't want to waste in front of the monitor so I tried to sit down for long enough to pick up a pencil. This is the end result. I apologize for the size, but it's actual, and when I shrank it, it lost too much detail. I'm too vain for that.
Why don't I ever draw anyone wearing clothes? This is the most pleased with something I've been for awhile...although that isn't saying much. Which is why the gallery hasn't been updated for over a month. I had a hard time trying to decide if I wanted to ink it in. Then I realized that it would be a completely different drawing if I did.
I always feel like a kid when I stay up all night. Thank freakin' god tomorrow's Sunday or I'd be using a sick day without blinking. I'm trying like hell to keep all of my days and use them for a good and long vacation this year. I don't even care if I go anywhere, I'd be happy with sitting on the couch for a week and a half.
This is going to suck ass when I finally get tired and most likely throw my sleep schedule off for the whole week.
If you don't have any interest in a bit silly Tom Robbins adoration, please proceed past the italics below.
"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.
Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes - and you'll never catch February in stocking feet - it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.
However more abbreviated than it's cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. it is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip of it's mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.
February is pitiless and it is boring. That parade of red numbers on it's page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It is no accident our ancestors pinned Valentine's Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.
This rings so true for February in the south. Right now all the daffodils are blooming, trees and filled with flowers and the smell drives me crazy. I love the smell of my city when it's spring. But that just it. It's false spring and it happens every year. I wonder how long we have...it was 78 today though. It was sandals and tank top weather. I could just taste it. Unfortunately it also drives the pollen count through the roof for this time of year, I think it's around 200. In the summer, at it's height of usually 2000 my left eye shuts and runs like a faucet. I promise the first time it happens this year I'll have a photo.
The sun will be up soon, and I'm showing no signs of fatigue. I bet you are though, this is most assuredly one of my duller entries. Just because I'm wide awake doesn't make me prime entertainment material.
I think I've got enough gas left in my tank to post this now and then my height of activity will be falling asleep whatever trash is on television at 5:30 on a Sunday morning.
I better smoke a joint if I'm going up against evanglists.
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