That storm that dumped all the snow on the Midwest a couple days ago arrived in New England overnight, but all it brought us was wind and rain. All night long, I dreamed the rain was coming in, dripping from the ceiling, sheeting down the walls. And the house was full of strange cats I couldn’t bear to throw out into the rain.
That’s an anxiety dream, that is. I live perpetually somewhere between “just enough for the city” and “one toke over the line” and my subconscious gets damned tired of it.
So I get up, and I’m thinking something between “I need to brush my fangs” and “I need to rinse my mouth,” but what comes out, quite clearly, is “hang on a second, I need to vush my fouce.”
Whenever that happens to me (and it happens a real lot), my first instinct is to jam my hands in my pockets and repeat, in a tone of incipient menace, “that’s right, bitch, I need to vush my fouce!” But as I was only explaining to the cat why I’m not opening her a can of kitty glop quite yet, that seems unnecessarily heavy. She gives me the green eye while I vush my fouce.
I don’t know if you guys know it, but weekends, I’m the only person on the internet. Saturday I wake up thinking, “at last! I can catch up on my witty banter and my snappy patter and that whole free exchange of ideas business that is the internet!” But I’m alone in here and it’s all cold and echoey. Don’t tell anybody: I pee’d in the corner. I was sad. I pee on things when I’m sad.
Damnedest thing. You’d think the traffic would go up on weekends when people have more free time, but it goes down. Always has done. It was true long before most people had a ‘net connect at work, so it’s not that.
Anyhow, the rain blew itself away and it’s sunny and crisp this morning. I should’ve gone for a hike, but instead I think I’ll go to the mall. On a Saturday morning. Before Christmas. Mad! Mad, I tell you! Still, I have to buy a buttload of Christmas presents, and that’s where they keep them.
But first I have to vush my fouce one more time.