Angelina Bro-lie and I will head to Will-ville before long for the sole purpose of collecting items to create: pies, trail mix bars, holiday feast. We'll probably grab some expensive beers at an expensive bar, too. ... Something to look forward to. But we won't linger; that's Ms. Starchild's turf now.

I'll be making another try to leave this awful town. This time around, I'm aiming pretty high. Please, everyone, if you're reading now, envision me having a beautiful life in this locale. Without getting my hopes up too much, I'm doing the same. ... all I hope for is a callback.

Here's a little ditty I dug up from the past. You could say the same thing about how I feel today, except that I'd probably be wracked with guilt about the entire thing. I'd probably not acknowledge her. ... I hate it all. I have to escape as soon as possible.

The Wednesday Headache

In a dream last night, Jim Morrison and I met with a smile, strong handshake. He offered to record a song as I played, which was CCR's "Bad Moon." Later, he asked "Wind-up girl?", asking whether I knew the song. "No." "Hmm," he said, "Good song title, ... for future use."

Co-worker Mr. Sports-Junior killed a mouse earlier in the week. Thereafter, he relieved himself of his responsibility to dispose of the body, yet will proudly accept "Thank You!"s for it's demise. As I cleaned his mess, I worried about his upbringing — one that'd allow decomposing animals indoors to be OK.

A friend to Ms. Starchild e-mailed me today asking whether I'd be interested in buying her auto. I replied with a no thank you, which included a detail about my current transportation. Point: I'm so obsessed with Ms. Starchild that I wonder about whether she knows about my transportation now.

I've revived The Wednesday Headache today, on Thursday, because I've a headache. Breathing in all that death from the dead mouse probably did it; either that, or the current state of my life (ironic conclusion). As your life unfolds, keep a sad and lonely little soul in your thoughts (mine).

Sentimental Sunday [cup half full]

While riding my bike last night, I put on both my gloves without stopping or slowing down.

Sentimental Sunday [cup half empty]

Last night, my friend Mr. Slapphappy Chef canceled our plans for the evening. Seems that the brake lights on his car had failed sometime during the week, and would no doubt generate attention from law enforcement officials during nighttime hours in transit. 

I'd planned to try my luck at raising self esteem in a more hospitable locale, namely S-boro, which's about 30 minutes away. Though, without transportation, and with a strong desire to leave the inside of my apartment (and namely my brother's company) that particular last night, I tried to indulge in this city. Last night's attempt was as fruitless as all those before it. It was more expensive than it should've been, and my self esteem was given another warranted demerit.

The new girl today, whom we are to train, has not arrived yet. She's 40 minutes late as of now. Looks like we've got another great hire! In other news, I've discovered these banana chips at the Oriental market here. They're acceptable. I mean, I wouldn't throw them away, anyhow.

I dreamt of Ms. 2012 last night. We were sitting in some ill-lit room. She told me that people live as an ever-expanding line, the point of which is an ongoing, burning spark. Her face was light, but severe. I yelled, "I miss [Ms. Starchild];" I woke up bawling.

My bike chain popped off twice today. It's becoming a thing, and by thing I mean nuisance. Maybe it's just this nuisance, but I found that it takes me much longer to get places than it did when I first got the bike. ... Maybe the novelty has finally wore off.