tuckova

I’m stuck in a moderately nasty memory loop. It’s that I remember so
much stuff and so much of it is awful that I think I made it up; and
then I try to remember something bracingly good, and presently I’m
counting dust motes and I’m no fun to be around at all. I can remember.
Just sometimes Billy Pilgrim drinks me under the table and there’s no
Montana Wildhack to comfort me.

So okay, we’ll do updates, shall we. Oh let’s! We meaning I took down
the decorations, the tree and the lights and everything today. I am
madly efficient and did it with only one cigarette break. It is very
funny how once the tree is gone that part of the room looks so empty.
When you put the tree up, you’re like, "Now how on earth shall I get to
my back issues of Scientific American for the next two weeks?" and then
two weeks later you’re both "Whoo, there’s that article on the temporal
lobe that I was looking for!" and also "Hey, should we buy some more
furniture or something?"

But we should not buy more furniture because in fact we’re meaning I’m
having the living room painted next week. I had to tell Friar about it,
because he has to clear off his desk. I was sort of tempted for a
minute to go ahead and have the room painted and see if he noticed but
the burden of clearing the desk frightened me into reason. So he
cleaned his desk while I undecorated. I believe he required quite a few
more breaks and he’s not done. Some people are not fixated on
completion.

The cat has been put on a diet because she is a fatty fattness. She doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Yowr.

Oh, and I shaved my head. Partly because I watched Violently Happy and
it seemed like a good idea. Also because, as they say, I could. And
also, of course, because it was there.

New Year’s was magically delicious. We went to the beer garden for the
first fireworks, which were at 11 for reasons rather too Brno-esque to
detail. Then we went downtown and saw the midnight fireworks. The whole
thing was lovely and crazy and nearly precisely what I love about
living here, and I had it all encapsulated in my mind but then I didn’t
write it down immediately and now it seems so much my standard Making A
Big Insight From A Small Event, whoo, that I can’t quite bring myself
to do it.

Sometimes I feel like U2 on tour or something, ratcheting up the
emotion every night just to make a point when what I really want to do
is crash back with a bottle of whiskey and a pretty groupie or
something.

But my face is my own, as the poet said. What to say when you see me.