Reading harold_maude's journal

It's a couple hours after sunset and the cats are kissing up because they want to come in where it's warm.
I can't say that I blame them. Dark. Cold. Not so good.

I know that they can see in the dark better than I can even if I had binoculars but that's no reason to think they have an easier time of it outside than I would.
Well, yes there is a matter of their fur. That would definately make it easier staying outside at night.

If I had fur I might consider it. But I don't so it makes it nessasary for me to stay in a warm climate on these cold and growing colder nights.

I'm in a particular strange mood at the moment and since I don't want to watch some guy puking his guts up on the movie up stairs, I've come down to write strings of disconnected thoughts.
One more brave moment in the day. Still haven't located the chicken....wonder where it's gone off to.

ah no matter, it's in no danger of ending up as the main course on the dinner menu some night. I'm not into eating animals that I've spent time with. It just wouldn't be right.

Random thoughts....I can hear the movie upstairs and it's a messed up conglomeration of strange disjointed moments that make some sense after you watch the thing several times.
Kind of like 2001. A movie that makes no sense, it does if you've waded through the explainations that have been offered as to the part with the strange melting colors that come only after the computer has gone wonkie and decited to do away with every human in the place.

It's more like a mad dream in places that keep coming back in the after math of a long night of drinking.
The day after: not remembering much, with a raging hangover it makes one wonder what drives sane people to pay to get that way.
But as most people who drink to that drunken of a state, the idea of paying to get that way wasn't something high on their list of priorities when they began drinking.
Only aiming for the brass ring of being shit faced.

....go to work, come home, get drunk go to bed....get up, go to work, come home, get drunk, go to bed.
The continuous cycle of the ambitious who are bored out of their minds.

If I was a drinking woman I would have been drunk several hours ago, as things have happened since I wrote about the chicken this morning and I would love to take a sledge hammer to the rest of the day.
But I don't drink that often and when I do, I set out to get drunk which by the time I'm even half way close I want to puke my guts out.
Not a good thing when that blissful state of everything looks better when your drunk is something your aiming for and can't seem to get there.
Not that I don't feel it after one or two shots, but I'm talking the kind of drunken state where if someone beats the crap out of you, you never feel a thing. The true anastesia of the drug that's legal.

I've tried, with fervant ambition to get there. I used to be able to get there with little or no effort.
Ah the good old days, where it was easy to make the bed spin, and try to escape the madness that comes the next day in the form of a raging hang over, by staying up all night, or at least trying to.
Hopeing that it would work.

I don't know what happened. Maybe I'm too in control and feel too responsible to do that anymore.

I would like to get drunk tonight. That kind of drunk. But even if I could I have to work in the morning and it sucks working and trying to do a list of tasks when all you want to do is stay in bed.
So much for an easy escape from how I feel. So much for not feeling this crap. I hope it will be gone in the morning.
If not it will be just as bad as a hang over only I will have no reasonable excuse as to why I feel so shitty.

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.