Well we stood at the altar, the Gypsy swore our future looked bright, but come the wee-wee hours, maybe Baby, the Gypsy lied...
I stayed up way too late last night. The insomnia is still working out just fine, thank you. Who needs sleep? The dark circles around the eyes (do dark-skinned people get those?) are back. If this doesn't stop, people are going to start calling me raccoon, like they did when I was in elementary school. I went to bed at 4:00 AM this morning and got up late at 8:00 AM. Bad Bob, no breakfast for you! I did three loads of laundry before I went to bed this morning, while chatting with shadorunr, working on McGuffin, and writing out the preceding long, tangled, entry full of introspection concerning the Tarot reading bridgetester did for me. Playing with Tarot cards is fun, but holy mental-enema, Batman, I think I should stay away from deep introspection for awhile. It's taxing, and it just comes out all disjointed and rambly when I try to push it. Perhaps I should occupy my mind with lighter ponderings for awhile.
It's now time for the penguin on top of your television set to explode.
Hmmmm, you can't go wrong with Loony Toons! Did you ever notice that the Roadrunner is a total glutton? Seriously! Has anyone ever seen the Roadrunner pass up a plate of free birdseed? He could be streaking down the highway at speeds that would give Porsche owners an inferiority complex but he always stops on a dime for birdseed. You'll never catch him thinking, "Nah, I just polished off some cactus seeds and some fat grubs, I suppose I'll give this plate of seed a pass. Besides, what about my weight and fitness?" Why hasn't the Coyote ever capitalized on this weakness? If I were him, I'd spend some of that money he obviously uses just to make Acme Co. insanely wealthy (I'm sure there are leaders of Middle Eastern nations just dying to know how he affords all his WMD's) on one gigantic plate of birdseed. Has anyone ever seen the Roadrunner stop eating before every last seed was down his gullet? Anyway, with a giant plate of seed, the Roadrunner would just get insanely bloated and too full to do much more than waddle. Then the Coyote could just walk up to him and salt his gorged tail at his leisure. Often times, the simpler solution is the better one.
Self-Flagellation at the Tower of Babel
This is perhaps a misleading title. Contrary to the implied innuendo, this paragraph does not concern onanism, although I certainly woke up in the mood for it this morning. Wooden, it be nice if we could wake up, in the morning when the day is new... No, this concerns something else entirely. I was out in my driveway taking in the recycling and garbage bins from the curb this morning when some guy in an SUV pulls up, lowers the window, and asks me a question. He was an older fellow, of mixed Asian heritage and he had what might have been a grandchild, of maybe five or six years, in the passenger seat of the car. I went over to see what he wanted and he started speaking to me. He had one awfully thick accent. Honestly, I could not for the life of me make out two consecutive words of what he was saying. It sounded like English, but the words were so accented that I couldn't understand him at all. I managed to make out a few numbers and some random adjectives like "big" and "near" but that was it. I asked him to repeat himself, because he may as well have been speaking Hungarian. He kept on going with me being totally unable to understand to the point that I am not even sure that he understood me and was trying to repeat what he had been saying more clearly. It was weird -- even strangely disorienting not to be able to make out what this guy was trying to say. I was getting embarrassed thinking that it would be rude to keep demanding that he repeat himself but I honestly couldn't latch onto any meaning at all in what he was saying. Finally, he stopped talking and I nodded and smiled and wandered back to take my trash bins back into the garage. Suddenly, it hit me. He was still there, waiting on me to say something in return, but I had just flaked out and rudely walked away from the guy without giving him whatever answer he was looking for. Mortified, I stood there, stupidly feeling embarrassed for what felt like an eternity, and I had just resolved to try and go back and make sense of his conversation again when he drove away, probably reasoning that, given my bleary-eyed appearance, I was some drugged-up loon, too blasted on hallucinogens to realize that he was real. Certainly my lack of sleep contributed to the weirdness factor of this encounter. This is why guys never stop to ask directions. We know that a map is less confusing than some of the people we may encounter if we start chatting it up with total strangers. I feel like such the inconsiderate clod. What was I thinking? Answer: I wasn't.
Car Tune Sing-Along
Several minutes later, while driving down the road, I had another encounter with my fellow human critters that was much less disconcerting. I was stopped at a traffic light and a woman pulled up behind me. I was singing along with the radio. The tune was Celine Dion: "That's The Way It Is". As I sat there at the red light, singing along, I noticed that the lady in the car behind me was also singing. Watching her in the rear-view mirror, I was able to ascertain from reading her lips that it was the same song to which I was listening. Isn't radio grand? Of course, this made me grin, and I am glad that the lady did not look into my rear-view mirror and notice me grinning like a drooling maniac at her. That would have just taken the magic out of the encounter, I think.
Once, while I was eating my Alpha-Bits, a delusional ex-wife and a greedy tax-man tried to snarf-up my paycheck! What did you do? Uhm, nothing.
I took the now-ex-wife off of the dependents on my W-2 form last month, and listed myself as "single." Of course, this is the cry of the patsy, yelling for his disgustingly incestuous Uncle Sam to come and prong him in the rear for more tax money. Naturally the perverted old bastard was more than happy to oblige. I am poorer in this month's check by a few hundred dollars. OUCH! On top of this, when the ex did her paperwork to file for this inter-personal calamity, the numbers she used caused the number crunchers at the courthouse to belch out a decree for her that entails three quarters of my net pay! I don't fucking think so, Scooter! Besides, after the rent and the frigging taxes come out, I don't even have three quarters of my check left! So, needless to say, I've got to go and file some more paperwork to explain why the idiots in power at "the justice system" are obviously barking mad in attempting to award my ex that kind of lucre. Things are bad enough just trying to give her half that much. Nevertheless, I didn't deal with it today. I've got to think about it today and see what can be seen. I'm probably going to have to go to the courthouse and get some kind of form to fill out to contest this. Fortunately, Crystal has decided to be reasonable.