It’s a beautiful day. I’ve been kind of depressed the past couple of days but this morning when I woke up I decided, hey-ho, not gonna be depressed today. After all, I have no earthly reason to be blue… it’s just so easy to stay in the habit once it’s been established, which it was in spades from the time I was a young’n. But I’m bent on digging new grooves for my brain waves to surf on, insofar as I am able and as long as Martha Beck keeps writing books to help me. Besides, last night’s episode of Lost kicked ass. But I don’t want to talk about TV today. That was yesterday’s topic.
Today’s topic is… um. I don’t know. What do you want to talk about? Speaking of which, it’s very strange to not really know who I’m writing to here (except for faithful commenters like Fence and Twila, thank you!). I’m no longer plugging my posts on Facebook, and the only other blogs I visit are the ones I’ve linked to, and I’m ashamed to say I don’t visit them every day. (I’m sorry, you guys, if you’re reading this.) So I’m not networking in any way. It’s just… I’m not all that interested in blogs, even my own, yet it’s kind of nice to have a little bit of a public forum to spread out in. But how public is it? Maybe I’ll find out once I’m dead. I’ll be all, like, ectoplasm floating around in cyberspace, tracing my stats back to individual PCs and, yawn, I’m bored just talking about it. No, I won’t do that. If I get to be ectoplasm floating around, it’s not going to happen in cyberspace. I want to be in outer space on my own effing planet that features sex slaves who look like Rachel Weisz and Gabriel Byrne before he turned 50, all my favorite people, a complete lack of relationship drama, and the ability to eat everything I want without gaining weight. I want my Fantasy Island Planet please, only without Herve Villechaize, who freaked me the hell out when I was a kid, poor little guy, since I’m sure he never meant to scare children. Nor do I want Ricardo “Khan” Montalban with his Corinthian leather all up in there.
Yikes, I am SO boring myself. I’m reading a good juicy book called The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith. She wrote The Talented Mr. Ripley and its ensuing series and I just really love her style. I’ve also started Steering by Starlight by Martha Beck and am still working my way through Second Sight by Judith Orloff. I also have three papier-mache books from the library that have been quite informative as I think through my next project. I started it last week, actually, but used cardboard that was way too thin, so it buckled. I found a sturdy corrugated cardboard box to use instead, and will cut that into pieces soon. Today I think I’ll go to my mom’s house and print out what I have so far of Martin so my kids can read and critique it, and we’ll stay to eat dinner and watch the American Idol results show (goodbye Paige). (Please.) I’m not going to be depressed today. I’m not. Love to whomever’s out there! xo
Edit: It occurs to me that if I’m eternal ectoplasm then having sex slaves – no matter who they look like – isn’t going to be fun at all but instead all kinds of frustrating. The food thing wouldn’t work either. I’d better rethink the ectoplasm concept. Maybe I’ll start a new branch of feminist Muslims or Mormons because they guarantee themselves loads of sex in heaven. I’ll work on that right away and get back to you.