Ice over everything, buttocks to brainstem. Richard-The-Boss and I at work alone, essentially, for two hours after Sam-The-Man(ager) left. I told Dear Richard stories about my philandering father and my JD brother, and dirty jokes about girlscouts, while he laughed and the ten customers we had all day wandered about. I think we sold, total:

six wine glasses

1 tin of burt's bees lip balm

2 smarties

2 greeting cards

1 bottle of lamp oil

1 papier mache bunny rabbit

We closed up shop at 4, though we'd only been in since noon. The highlight of the day was a couple from Sacramento, visiting a Duke Co-ed friend. My High School-- Sacramento Hs, the second oldest school west of the mississippi-- is being closed. Low test scores, they say.

Wait a moment, while I stare at the screen in numb shock. I hate the overdevelopment of the Sacramento valley. Vomit, vomit, vomit.

Utterly numb I am, numbed by Marius, shuffling his feet in my head doltishly, not wanting me to get on with my nefarious plans for his Darling, numbed by Javert, who is afraid I am going to make it terribly obvious that he's been up to Naughty Things with a certain redeemed ex-convict. Numbed by grousing Grantaires, pleading brandywise for their lives with laconic, exasperated Old Imperials over brie for the lives of his, ah, followers. Sotted further by yet another Javert, talking to a blond-haired doppleganger about illusions in a noisy bar. And, of course, hammered by irrepressably snarky aristo college-boy, would-be opera singers who play also basketball, their bouncy, deformed-but-ambitious friends, and a certain cringing lesbian photographer who is busy living in fear of her psycopathic editor.

And then there is this Woman and her Lady, who've got me living in fear.

And then there is this Mendicant, who's got me living in despair.

Bad habit number one-- too many voices. Some of them don't mind not being written-- they just want to to be discussed, particularily in the intricacies of their love lives.

The circular reason for this is that when they do get written, they tend to be tortured beyond belief. Witness a certain diabolical telepath, whom I have robbed of his powers, shoved in a university as a professor, given his daughter a boyfriend who's gotten her knocked up, afflicted him with six kids, 2 dead wives and one too-living ex, and a cheating husband. Oh, and a violent arch-rival. I'm surprised he's still speaking to me, let alone living in my head.

Anyway, the bad habit. There's the itch, you see... start writing a paragraph of this, move on to a sentence of that, segue into a page of that other thing. I do that. Far too much probably.

And then I have to re-type it to inflict on the lot of you, once it's done. Bully. No wonder I'm not publishing anything.

Apparently, the fox is going to blather on the phone with, excuse me, "Her Husband" until I get off of the computer. Well la-dee-fucking-da.

I have ideas for revenge, but I like to advertise that I am not a petty person.

But why did I decide that I didn't need alchohol this weekend? Ah well. I think the corner store is still open.

<<agé chose>>

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