Today would be a day of little to no note whatever save that I worked a whole 8 hours, which murdered my feet, and that it is the presumptive anniversaire of dear sweet Stephen, the invisible master of my domain. He's been perfectly terrible, especially as I bought him one of those pre-packaged ice cream cakes and that purple leather journal I'd been on about.

I also bought myself a little toy Aramis, as in the musketeer, because he was the last left. We've two D'artagnans, but we just got a shipment that included several Athos and Porthos.

Sadly, we don't get Cardinal Richeleau, but I intend to order him.

I love my job because I get to spend the morning playing with little toy frenchmen. And Julius Cesars and Dragons and Wizards and Jeanne D'Arcs and Robin de Bois and Richard le Roi (in blue /or/ red) and...

...and their HORSES!!!

Anyway, Stephen is thirty today, in theory. He's writing about the day in his new venue. I mean, in story-land.

I think about Murfius and Ruggerio, his two alter-egos. I think that Murfius is probably also a taurus. Ruggerio, the Evil Italian Magician however... probably a scorpio.

Aramis will go really well with Death, Severus Snape, and the little pink haired troll doll on my desk.

Made tacos for dinner; first real meal with the new roomie in attendance, and with my new wrought iron griddle that I have spent the past forty-eight hours trying to season properly. Think I am having some success... the taco shells turned out nummly.

It was a wonderful cheap (as in inexpensive) griddle, and my purchase of it inspired envy and rage in all who beheld.

I should not be as proud of this as I am.

Stephen is terribly dissapointed in me, as I seem to be growing terribly used to, if not fond of, the taste of Bud Light. Though we've entreated Fairlight to obtain us a six pack of Killian's Irish Red.

Some guys were busted for driving a (probably) stolen hoopty without a licence, and this right in front of our house. tsk tsk. It's actuallt not a bad neighborhood. Duham cops are just stupid. I think the only reason they stopped these guys is that they were black guys in a completey tore up hoopty mobile. To be really quite ghetto about it.

There are three pairs of patterened ladies silk underwear stapled to the telephone pole at the enterance to my street which together spell 'Art'. How terribly pretentious of these undergarments.

I am riding a basil and roma tomato and parmesean cheese high, baby.

I suppose I should go read the new Miles Vorkosigan book now. Or Maybe The Red Shoes. Or something. Else. Not here.

Maybe.

<<agé chose>>

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