(no subject)

too tired. cannot detangle.

the prospect of writing's been taunting me all day. it's become a habit, a fix. write to the world, feel somewhat exculpated for being a generally lousy correspondent...

but alas. drive 90 miles, more when you go towards oak ridge by accident for fifteen, then work 10 to 9 with a break for sneaker-shopping in there somewhere... 50% off hurrah because the old ones have big holes in the toes and i should buy while i still have income even though it really doesn't make all that much difference when the lack of income is known to approach... i just can't ramble now about new apartments and the charms of a not-moldy-smelling place or of cultural consumptions like les triplettes de belleville because my head will surely hit the keyboard... or worse, it'll miss and i'll end up all upside down and concussed and so on.

i need mardi gras plans. i have no mardi gras plans. i have no energy to make mardi gras plans. happy mardi gras everyone.

ok, sleep. now. otherwise, delirium. fun but poorly looked upon.