malaise ballet

I am spending a belated lazy sunday on a Tuesday. Worked last weekend and I'm still recovering. Trying not to think of the probable new crop of veins that might have popped out from the ordeal. My legs have always been a battlefield, a metaphor for my self-esteem. Shallow but true. Come so close to bitch-slapping the cripple in 60 who kind of reminds me of FPJ's "berdugos" in the movies of my childhood. Eke kindness and they pounce on it like vermin on cheese and cling like annelids sucking out every ounce of energy, compassion and sympathy. I'm not being charitable. I'm venting. Nobody appreciates manipulation belying their amiable and idealistic demeanour. Do not insult my intelligence. Oh how I need TEDS! The ages are a-calling.

I should be out watching Knocked Up and Waitress. I'm a prequel to a Judd Apatow flick. Watching movies alone has become a ritual indulgence. I cannot stand talking during movies specially clueless, erroneous blow-by-blows, sorry says the geeky snob. Excruciating. Rather be alone. Never been a big Felicity fan but my friends/Dragon Manse family are. I cannot look at Keri Russel without remembering Puppy. Sigh. Have to find time to hit the UK. Miss all of them. They know who they are.

In one of those days again. I quitely hate that raving brat who's eating my grapes and wiped my emergency yoghourt smoothies. Shut the fuck up retard or I'll lace your milk with Ritalin! Will be ok by moon shift. Right now I cannot stand you. And stop meddling with my bookshelves! I'm so not maternal. Have to find my own place. I'm so un-domesticated. Suburbia sucks. Wal-marts are evil. My writers desk has become a receptacle for dollar store giveaways and plastic forks. One day. One day I shall truly relish my gypsy ways. Practicality blows. Have to find my DVR remote. I miss my Conan, even E! Thank God Grey's and Heroes seasons are over. Now only down to Entourage. Yummy Adrian Grenier.

Thank god my wireless connection is not on the fucks. Internet radio is wondrous. Have jumped from San Francisco, to Seattle, to Edinburgh, to Nederlands. Beatles music, to grunge, to Jazz (but too many saxophones, yuk), to indies and college radio. Is Morrisey gay or just in touch with the feminine side? Listened to Irish Blood, English Heart. Wonder if he would ever be invited for scones and Earl Grey at Windsor or Kensington.

Maybe should while away with blogs and neuroni-cide. There's champagne left from my nth godson's baptism in the fridge. A barter for yoghourt smoothies.