well, somehow I am still moving... perhaps I am even awake... I did fine at work, amusing even, based on the laughter we shared at my antics as the sixteenth hour blended into the seventeens... and then I arrive back home to find myself wired and bouncing around the place and hungry and singing Broadway show songs (giddily, no doubt, no less) to Precious to demonstrate one of the CDs I borrowed from the library (another Andrew Lloyd Webber collection, this one by Sarah Brightman)... so I totally threw my sensible eating pattern out the window (and this on a day when I did not get to the gym, huh?) and cooked up some stuffed clams and eggplant parmesean (a lot) and gobbled it all up and now I am drinking some Mountain Dew Live Wire for dessert (with a few of those chocolate chip things that are kind of like Pringles but made of chocolate, or in this case, Reese's)... oh yeah, believe it now (and stand in awe of it later), I am decadent (and loving every minute of it Jerry)...

Ben too...

but knowing down deep that there is (or are) nothing more than references to this mood for beneath it's ever so thin laughing layer of linguistic exhuberance is fatigue screaming for a lay, lay down position that is (did I mention I bumped my knee today, rather hard, at that?) and that falling over is what would be an ideal conclusion to this rather lengthy period of sleepily waking wandering as What A Girl Wants (a movie firmly based in the premise that what goes around comes around and everybody gets what they truly deserve, eventually, and hopefully while they are still alive and young enough to appreciate and enjoy the gloriousness of it all) plays on the TV again (as tomato sauce splatters all over the inside of the microwave as Precious heats her lunch leftovers, twice baked lasagna and, of course, Pepsi... a clear reminder of the foolish unhealthiness of daily decadence, thank you... now delighted in my ever so happy reaction to realize that my momentary pleasures of the oral cavity are but fleeting and no longer a daily habit and if only I might gradually rub off on the dear child before her habits balloon her into adulthood, it would all be worth it)... wouldst that anyone ever truly understand me, I'd barely stand it myself...

nod, nod, nod, kerplop (the sound of a head bobbing and ultimately falling into the head rest of the big green chair until, an hour or so later, an hour that felt no more than a minute, but was really an hour, passed)... and in the end (the love we make), along Abbey Road or anywhere real in this world (is equal to), romantic family love is the ideal best, alas, and all that jazz...

sigh...

you really are missing something special, wherever you are...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)