And there are baby birds on our front porch, in a house plant. I want to take a picture of the little squirmy, beaky jelly beans, but it's shaded light for brown birds, and there's my now internalized fear of leaning over and having the mother bird careen out of the nest at my head. It happened once, and I realize the bejeezus was scared a little more out of her than me. But still. I screamed, she didn't.
It's 11:16 PM on a Friday night, and I am making an eclair cake. I put off the job too long, and it needs to be done by bedtime tonight. Unarguable.
Today at work I looked forward all day to the evening, and approximately three hours of enforced mind-numbing a la Cycle One, Disc One, of America's Next Top Model. The Adrianne Curry Days, Pre-Peter Brady. I'm fascinated by this girl because I found her all at once endearing, and sort of amazing with her drive and the psycho way she just picks up a snake, or how she tones like every freaking muscle in her body just because she's nuts enough to push herself that way. But then, the flat voice, it kills me. The borderline but not quite vapidity. She's riding a thin line, that one.
At work this week, one girl cried, another passed out, and at night the never-ending dialogue regarding the price plans, the technology, the soft customer skills, commanded my dreams.
Off to create Layer 2.
No comments:
Post a Comment