Prodded on by your generous and foolish acceptance of my fancy-ass version of the I-have-nothing-to-say entry, I’ve decided to unload more perfectly meaningless information.
For instance, my house smells like a funeral home. (Speak of being dead, huh?)
Saturday, I purchased white lilies with pink centers. At the time they were long narrow buds. Now they are monstrous, yawning blossoms big enough to look like they’d eat a house cat if I had one. And they…They stink. I hate to admit that. I would like to tell you the scent of heaven wafts through my living room, but funeral home is what comes to mind.
I can’t throw them out. I am tender with plants and stones. Perfectly capable of shooting dirty looks at helpless beleaguered mothers with crying babies, a teenager with leaky headphones on my bus whom I call “Heavy Metal Deaf Boy” and anyone within audible range talking on a cell phone. I am perfectly capable of eating fellow-mammals fried up with onions and sliced fungus. I cannot murder a plant. Even one that was, for all intents and purposes, dead when I bought it.
I will not ever sleep in a room where my feet are towards the door, or a window is behind me. But I forget to lock my door at night.
I swear like a sailor but will not use terms like “download” or “interface” in any sense unconnected with computers. I hate the term, “twenty-four seven” because it’s prison language – origins quickly lost, grown fashionable and used by those who have no idea of the painful hell it refers to.
There now. I think I’ve dispelled a little of the calm. Thank you for your patience.
