(no subject)

 One of the things I'd like to get in the not too distant future is a facial.  Not the dirty kind, the kind where a well-meaning person pokes at your pores.  Since the individual I used to trust to this has since decamped for some midwestern state, I need to find a new person.

 

Which leads me to one of my favorite awful past-times.  I love really bad yelp reviews.  The only thing better than a really bad yelp review is when the owner of the business starts throwing shade in their reply.  I'm not sure what about entitled people and awful service entertains me so much, and it might not even be entertainment, but it's some relatively pleasant emotion.

 

Mostly, I'm home from a volunteer meeting, I'm tired and I want to stay up all night and read the second half of the book I'm reading.   Abundance is sickly, Light is plague-ridden and I'm remembering that the difference between allergies and getting sick is whether or not my eyes hurt.  Which isn't to say I can't be getting sick and suffering from allergies at the same time. 

 

I'm listening to a Leah Nobel song with the line "my roots are shallow" and I wonder about that, I wonder what sort of roots the traumatized, the alcoholic, the depressed have, if we're all plagued by the deep down suspicion that tells us the next strong wind is going to take us out.  Of course not, we're not a singular entity, any more than I know every person who ever lived in New Hampshire, I just want to find pieces of kinship wherever I can, things that make me more same-as than different-than. 

 

I just spent an embarassing amount of time trying to use my thumb to rub off what I assumed was red pen on the other hand.   Apparently at some point in the day got scratched (probably by Nonsense's enthusiasm) and it turns out you can't actually rub off a wound.  Not quite sure why i didn't parse the pain as meaning it wasn't pen earlier, but so it goes.