Shock-o-late Cake

Tuesday, May 31st, 2011 – Knees are bastards, mad love, I kill plants, the thirst that won’t die

Is it really a week since I last posted an entry? I’m getting lazier by the day it seems. I have no strength to do much at the end of the day but rock in a corner and drool on my shirt. Which, to the keen observer, is pretty much like an ordinary, less busy day for me, except with more apathy and less enthusiasm.
It’s really no wonder I drink.

I’ve tried, tonight, to catch up on my creaking Google Reader, valiantly straining under the heft of all those unread entries of yours. It’s like a losing battle though. I waded through a good, pleasant, cockle-warming pool of them, managed to leave a few comments – not nearly enough, but I’d still be here next September if I left them on every entry I read – and ended up getting nothing else done at all, except concocting a makeshift pizza out of some garlic nan bread and various oniony, peppery, cheesy toppings, which, if you ask me, is time well spent.

Time substantially less well spent was an hour that seemed like five weeks, entertaining my friend’s five year old, who insisted on riding me around the living room pony style, while I got rug burn on one knee and exacerbated the one that was already blaring at Defcon 1 with the yoga injury. Plus you all know how I feel about small, young, fast-moving, loud humans. I’m so not jiggy with them. If I had one of my own I’d be a full-on babbling alcoholic by now. Instead of just a full on babbler and part time wino. Luckily, for me and the world, I’d rather roll my pants in horseshit then eat them than have a brand new life-form spring forth from my loins.

I’ve also gotten really vexed that work is full of cake. I should probably have asked you to sit down before telling you that because, really, what position could possibly be better for me than in a place that deals in cake all day, every day and that requires that I sample said cakes and give opinions on texture and taste and chocolateyness on top of my more usual job description? Is it heaven or hell? I don’t know. All that sugar has confused me. It feels like heaven. My pants however, squawking in terror, are insisting it’s hell.

If that shocked you, you might want to move away from any sharp objects for this next sentence. I think there might really be a thing called “too much cake”. I know, right, what the hell?

There, you can open your eyes now and back away from the ledge. You’ll get over it.

Still no Ohio. Jesus Christ, people, I FAIL AT LIFE.