I was pretty ranty last night, huh. ::blinks::
I dreamed that a beautiful, seven-foot tall black woman--who I think actually called herself an Amazon--went into the office of a sheriff--who may have been Mel Gibson, sorry--and was hired for fifteen minutes of prostitution, except that when Mel started to touch her elegant back he ended up crying. She was very cold to him until he broke down, and then she held him and crooned comfortingly.
Freud would of course say, "Go have pancakes at IHOP, Anna." So I'm going to do that.
I also dreamed about cats again, big dopey cats who rule the world.
...I am not. And that's my sop to subject lines. I get sick of subject lines, but I can't seem to make myself post without them. And here I am, thirty-two words later, annoyingly meta.
Am going with A. to see "Identity," the new John Cusack movie, in about twenty minutes.
I am the owner of much less hair. I am wearing clean clothes. I have showered. Yay, me.
Clearly I feel the need to chart the course of my day here, regardless of how boring this is for all the rest of you.
In the car this morning, en route to pancakes, the radio played a song I'd never heard before, "Harder to Breathe," which google suggests is by Maroon 5, i.e., "Who...?" Peppy. It reminds me of Prince's "Kiss," which seemed exciting and addictive to me when I was fourteen (at the time, watching the video was a ritual teeny orgasm), but now strikes me as just another high-frequency, frivolous pop bleat.
Still, I think I like "Harder to Breathe," especially if I don't listen hard to the lyrics, which on inspection seem rather dumb. I thought the song might be by one of those boy-bandy guys, and was looking forward to telling my sparkly friends: I like one of your songs! Alas.
I'm slowly compiling a list of popcorny songs I want, including Chad Kroeger's "Hero," and that new cover of "Drift Away" (Dobie Gray? ...who?).
I am just killing time here.
A little while ago I got an idea in my head that I was going to scribble about, where Xander got vamped & ensouled more or less around the same time that Spike got--surprise!--shanshued, and how funny that would be, and I opened my Word file and I started to write and then thought: eh. It seemed too self-conscious, and too much effort to try and keep things in character when I knowingly wanted to write "loose," even if only to kill fifteen minutes.
I need to finish the next Sidelines story; I need the constraints of a more disciplined narrative form now. Subtleties was like a palate cleanser, I guess. The whole point of it was spontaneity, so trying to force more scribbling now--that makes no sense.
Must try to write when I get home later.