The Dumping of the Brain

It's sort of like the running of the bulls, only less dangerous.  Probably.

Why are office-type miniskirts now pencil skirts?  What happened to actual pencil skirts?  Glamorous librarians everywhere want to know.

My typing skills are all jacked up, because only about half the keys on my laptop keyboard are functional.  All the letters work, which is progress, but the shift key doesn't, which means that a) I reach for caps lock instead, which is annoying on a functional keyboard, and b) I have an impressive collection of punctuation marks, etc, on a desktop sticky note so I can copy/paste.  It makes things like im'ing a lot slower, and I refuse to use it to do any serious writing at all.

My friend for whom I occasionally edit skyped me last night, asking if I still gave "unflattering criticism of others' content."  Why yes, yes I do.

Yesterday in my art therapy class we presented timeline projects, which means that I spent almost a month making myself crazy about the execution of a particular (really good) idea, only to change the entire concept at almost literally the last minute.  No, really, it was the night before.  I'm working on breaking that habit, but really, how can I, when all my most brilliant ideas come three seconds before a deadline?  The project wasn't completed, but it also wasn't late.  This is progress.  I got several compliments, which, in the big picture, is probably not helpful.

In related news, my living room floor is now strewn with sewing and craft supplies.  Also, there are no acrylic craft paints to be had in the Montpelier area.  This may or may not have had something to do with the last-minute change.

I killed five or six flies on my window just two days ago.  Ok, maybe three.  Now there are three more, the little bastards.  Oh, and two more hiding behind the curtain.  The plus side is, they've gotten so slow over the winter, I've started killing them with my bare hands when I don't have a fly swatter handy.  Go me.  Maybe I'll start using chopsticks.

My little guy spent the week in Maine with his uncle.  He's coming home today.  I woke up this morning contemplating what I would do if he died in a car crash on the way home.  I honestly can't decide if this was or was not a healthy thought process.  Natural, certainly, given the events that have made up my life over the past few years (and possibly given the amount of Buffy-watching I've been doing this week - you know your life is effed when you watch Buffy therapeutically).  I am not an anxious parent.  These are not usually things I worry about, and even now it feels more like a really twisted thought exercise, running over the practical details of who I would call to go with me and what I would do after that.  I should have been a Boy Scout.

I ate breakfast on the back porch today, with a cup of tea and a book.  The book was Tom Robbins' Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, which I was enjoying until he started talking about the Amazonian Indians innate inability for levity, which I found to be totally condescending and irritating.  I'm not going to tell you what I ate for breakfast, except to say that my eating habits have gone all to hell in this week that I've been alone, and it may or may not have involved Nutella.  And fluff.  I know, disgusting.

I have to do a load of laundry today, but I'm sitting here not wanting to, and coming up with really good reasons for the lack of wanting.  It's Sunday.  There won't be any washers.  I'll have to put shoes on.  Ok, I just ran out of excuses.