August 2, 2002

Could this day be more gloomy? Grey-brain skies lowering overhead. Endless weepy, drizzling water bulged clouds trundle by in a mass like an army of fatties and then there are the single digit temperatures (which perhaps sound more alarming than they are for those not using the Celsius measurement) … It all conspires to make the hapless worker wonder, “Why in the name of all that’s holy did I get out of bed today?”

It’s a question that admits no comforting answer.

Seeking refuge, I return home and immediately seek the cold comfort of beer and the Waterboys, Fisherman’s Blues to be precise. Meanwhile the freakin’ cat keeps running to the patio doors as if desperate to escape the confines of a warm domicile, yet as soon as the door is opened she sits back, considers the merits of outdoor activities, then flees as if from some unnameable horror.

It’s called a crappy day, cat. That’s all it is. And it, like haemorrhoids, will pass (though not before imposing a degree of discomfort to its luckless victim).

By the way, why does my word processor want to insert an “a” in haemorrhoids as if vowels, too, could be discomfiting inflammations?

I had thought I would redeem the day by picking up a DVD to help pass the evening hours but there was nothing to find that was interesting or, if interesting, not stupidly overpriced. So I’ll have to retreat to the collection. What will it be? Some contemporary flash and boom thingamabob like … I dunno. I forget the titles almost as soon as I see them. Maybe something classic, like a return to My Man Godfrey. Or, as I was thinking earlier today, perhaps something relatively recent yet, remarkably, with a story, like Passion Fish?

That’s where I’m leaning. Passion Fish. Have I mentioned I’m in love with Mary McDonnell? I am. But it’s a secret love. I haven’t told her. Thus, it’s an unrequited love. A tragedy of classic design. Ah me …

Life. Whacha gonna do?


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