Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There's a guy in the bathroom doing WHAT? You know your night has taken a turn for the surreal when the guitarist in your husband's band walks out of the men's room with a wild-eyed expression on his face and tells everybody that there's a guy in the bathroom blowdrying his dick. Got home at two-thirty, which magically became three-thirty as the clocks jumped ahead. Fell into bed and slept the clock around, not waking when one of the felines apparently felt the need to yak right next to the bed. We got up, moved out the old computer desk to put in the one inherited from my sister, and now Bemo is off to work. I won't see him again until I wake up for work tomorrow morning. I'm feeling restless and unfufiled in some manner, but I can't put my finger on it and it's manifesting itself in some sort of low-grade irritability. It can't be lack of sex, because things have been fine (nay, pretty darn great) in that department. Maybe it's spring. This is the time of year when I start longing to travel, to go someplace different, see fresh faces, go to strange locations. I am craving Italy, or finally getting to Spain, or seeing England for the first time. It's resulted in me reading stories about Robin Hood and travelogues. (By the way, Mistress Sinister, I do have Lady of the Forest, and reread it thanks to your reminding me it was on my bookshelf. A good book, although not one of my favorites.) But instead of travel, I'm here on the East coast, watching the weather turn again, battling my sinuses which are in revolt from the pollen, and worrying about money. Bah. Off to see if I can put away some of these goddamn clothes on the futon 7:19 p.m. - 2003-04-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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