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"What is soul?
Soul is a ham hock in your cornflakes."
- George Clinton
Winter bullshit ahoy. Read, eat sleep, either way. Paranoid dreams of fertility, children in orbit; I am passing fallow band-aids. I am a tree.
I am on one hand very glad to have no folk so close as to douse in anhedonia. I mean, yeah, I'll bitch and all, but I am pleased (in that I feel pretty damn good about it, in fact) that nobody gets week-long crying jags this time around. Those are crap, and I apologize to all of you who have ever (starting in late 2000) dealt with me as a pile of stone. Warning to springtime; do not offer to stay through the snow.
It's not even the snow, or the light, or the cold. Something just cracks this time of year. I think "oh, it was where I was" in previous years. Indecision, indigence, incompatibility, inactivity. Situational, they say. Thing is, I'm just as paranoid (in the sense of feeling periodically overwhelmed and having no place to myself -- and yes, this is obviously irrational. I have spots. I have places. I just diminish in them, a fungus in the corner. Don't fix the sheets, do the laundry, any of that.) now as I was a dozen other thens. Nothing wronger or righter to be said.
I started laughing in all winds this year. Chilly breezes don't count. (Fuck that noise!) Hair flies everywhere, though, and it's glee. This both pleases and worries me.
Early sleep! and coffee and cranky morning people. If I lived in a warehouse with a million crayons, I might run around once, might echo once, then finish, forget, maybe stock the fridge heed only grumbling. No recreational food-eating on my bill. Ad libitum? Ad nauseam? Both suck, chillins.
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