Gah. Doctors and tests. It would be one thing if I could get all Camille and wanly hide my encroaching death. A little Violetta and I could do some soprano vocal gymnastics and be all tragic. “Amami, Alfredo!”

But noooo. It has to be things like potential kidney infections. There’s a reason people don’t write operas about kidney infections. One can’t be wan and tragic with a kidney infection. Well, one could, but I can’t.

A new issue of MIPOesias will be going live soon, and I had to record a number of bios for it. Bios are really hard to record, much harder than poems. All those names!

If I butchered anyone’s name, I’m so sorry.

Electricity was finally on for good (I hope) today, which meant I was finally back at work. Woo.

You know, I actually like my job–when I’m not doing it. Gee, I wonder why.

I’m still not writing. I don’t have the itch. I’m reading a lot, and playing online games of Werewolf/Mafia. But poetry just isn’t where it’s at at the moment moment. So, you all have to pick up the slack. Get along there, little dogies!

Ouch, that metaphor was so mixed, I think it actually became a can of nuts.

We have electricity again! Dayum, am I ever a child of the modern age. I couldn’t function without lightbulbs and cable internet.

I was home yesterday and again today because of an ice storm that has wiped out the county. It’s beautiful outside, but dammit, where’s spring?

Until pitchers and catchers report. Hi ho, Silver!

I cannot tell a lie. I have seen (and done) some truly jerkish things. But I think this takes the cake.

My coworker got a call from her husband wherein he announced that they were getting divorced. She was at work. She was about 15 feet away from me (I felt the urge to type in “as the crow flies” which would be a bizarre image, even for me). 15 feet away as her world ended.

Damn. If there’s someone who deserves to be chained to a rock while crows peck at his liver, it’s that dude. Eagles. Vultures. You make up your ancient myths; I’ll make up mine!

Well, I attempted to transfer over to WordPress, and now I have an empty blog over there that claims to have all the posts from over here, I just can’t see them. The import got hung up somewhere around post 150. Obviously, I talk a whoooole lot.

You probably know the kind. You’re just unhappy, for no good reason.

I want out, but I don’t even know what I’m in. Just a life.

As I’m typing, I’m looking at my hands. They look blue-veined and old. I don’t feel old inside. I feel like a sullen teenager, wondering where all the fun is.

We have a “Level 1 Snow Emergency” on the roads. I don’t even know what that means other than it means I’m too chicken to go out and drive around in it. They always say that teenagers have no idea of their own mortality. When did I lose that ignorance? I’m so aware of my own mortality I’m surprised I don’t live in a padded cell.

I’m on academic probation.

Because I am a slacker and a bad person and a Taurus.