Listening to the clank, clank, clank of a zipper tumbling round and round in the dryer, this despite vain attempt at muffling sound by throwing a whole bunch heavy towels in with it. Enjoying a ginormous, already super charged latte with an extra shot of expresso added in for good measure which I shouldn’t be having - and am probably enjoying, precisely because I shouldn’t be having it. Wondering why it is Xanax isn’t prescribed more routinely, particularly in the case of routinely obnoxious men. Trying to remain calm as two loonies in charge of whole countries seem to be having some sort of – Oh yeah you think your nuclear armament/deployment capabilities are impressive, well let me show you mine, adult version of some incredibly alarming, incredibly juvenile pissing contest. Trying best I can not to dwell on how deeply troubling, flipping frightening, disturbing to me the whole thing is. Watching Monte the Magnificent sleeping peacefully, blithely unaware, and wondering if perhaps Reincarnationists have it all wrong and it’s us the lower life form come back to atone for far greater sins. This while listening to Styx belt out – Too Much Time on My Hands, as I sit here dreading the many weary hours of the empty day ahead. I really should get out more. But then I’d have to shower, look in the mirror; see my botched hair from an incredibly bad trim yesterday. Too bad there isn’t haircut insurance I can afford but there just isn’t, which when I think about it makes sense. This because with as many femmes on the planet I’ve met as disappointed in their hair magicians as I am, what incentive for insurers would that be, knowing all the settlements they’d have to pay out, and because if it how broke they’d be.
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