Or anyone beside me.
The worst is, I sometimes get these flashes like I know what I'm doing, and the room sort of spins. I lose focus. And I never, ever have anything with me to write on when that happens, ever. I'll be driving, or at a play, or at dinner, and wham! Inspiration! Words hitting like drops of water on a white hot skillet, and all I have handy is a failing memory full of dislodged IP and television arcana. Fucking TV!
I am forced, prison camp style, to go to sleep with the goddamn television on every night, loud enough to seep into my goddamn dreams. I would give good money to not have a goddamn television on in my goddamn bedroom. It is affecting my ability to deal with the good noise; filters can't be that selective, you either get no noise or all noise.
Speaking of rants, my neighbors, they must be angling toward some sort of hate crime as a way to get out of a mortgage or something, because yesterday they had a small white car worth about ten bucks with a subwoofer worth about fifty grand parked, empty, outside the house with the goddamn thing up so loud, I couldn't concentrate on anything other than my walls shaking. I walked out there to ask them to turn it down, but there was no them, there. They were listening to the stereo inside the house, doors closed, and the kid who answered the door was too stoned to look me in the eye when I asked if it could be turned off. Twenty minutes later, the issue took care of itself while I frantically pulled my microwave apart to get at the salient bits to make a goddamn HERF gun and knock the fucker out of orbit myself. The punk kid's sound system overheated, squealed, and died in a cloud of acrid smoke. This has happened before, though, so I anticipate the same booming soundtrack when I get home today. My kingdom for directed energy emp weapons! We should all have tha bility to destroy electronics remotely. It'd be the equivalent of carrying a club; people would be more polite.
Speaking of energy, I'm gearing up for a party tomorrow night, a delayed Laurea birthday party and Femto Memorial BBQ. Laurea has, of course, done all the work cleaning and preparing (she took yesterday off, ostensibly to take the day off, but sneaking in a full day of housework), and all I need to do are clean my spaces (my bathroom and the room crammed with guns and guitars and computers, a room I like to call the guns, guitars, and computers room) and shop for food and alcohol. I will need to then cook for 40 (25 have committed, but I'd rather have more than less). Brisket, sausage, a leg of lamb (marinaded in buttermilk, sage, rosemary, white wine, olive oil and other things), some sort of poultry, and maybe some vegetables. Oh, and tofu. Some sort of tofu.
Smoking a brisket with my smoker takes anywhere from eight to twelve hours, though I may finish it off in the oven. It is a day long, intensive process filled with danger and sorrow.
Speaking of writing, I'm finally going to post this fucking mess. Happy friday, you fucks.
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