Alas

This was the song I was listening to before I even left the house. Seems sadly too appropriate now.

I want to write about walking 2 miles in the snow yesterday on my way to Montien. I once remember Ben Hopkins standing in the rain with his girlfriend instead of running for cover like everyone else. I wondered whether I was one of those kinds of people, and well, it turns out I am.

After walking the 40 blocks, I had snow in my hair, and that crisp pink cheekness, and a freezing cold butt. But I was happy.

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I should also write about a lovely afternoon with sinboy. Or getting back into my happy-making routines with alexsirkman, who chops the best grapefruit in town. Or making everyone eat Raw Food with me. noranac was clever and brought her Gas-X to the restaurant. Can Flatulence rear its ugly head? Does Flatulence have a head?

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What is feeling most pressing to write about right now, though, is the loss of my brooch. My yes, very cheesy Lothlorien brooch, that I wear on the front of my coat not only as my Dork Stamp but as... [pause for gagging] this symbol of the last time I really really felt loved. And yes, I'm a loser. And yes, it's because Mason gave it to me.

Maybe it's because of the Resolution, and not having talked to him in all this time, but having lost it feels that much more... empty. I'm even contemplating getting a replacement. It won't be the same in any way, but, but...

I'm a big loser. A big emo loser, really.

And with that, I go back to masking my emo in other mediums.

And maybe, just maybe, bed.

Time for Me

This is one of the first days that I've been home alone, sans plans (save for something speculative with infd tonight) and I've been trying to reorganize my closet and my life.

I decided, since the Closet Disaster of 2006, and the ensuing Booched Ikea Remedy of 2007, that perhaps I have a lot of clothing on my rung that I don't need to have handy. Why does this dress need to be ready at a moment's notice? The answer, of course, being that it doesn't.

So, into a big tupperware bin it'll go, up into the above-the-closet space that reverend_dave seems to think is perfect for sleeping.

No, David, I am not going into the closet!

Maybe it's because I'm "off the PAPER", but my room is out-of-control. What, I can control what I put in my mouth but not in my closet? Sounds foolish.

I refuse to leave my house until my house is in a state fit for viewing. And if that means some goodbyes? So be it. It'll only make room for newer, better things.