I have a new kitchen floor. That's something. And I've read more in the past three weeks than I did since last September, probably. Also I made friends with a Canada goose. He is an outcast, and the other geese do not like him. He keeps to himself. The ducks don't seem to mind him, but they also don't seem to talk much. I hold pieces of bread out to him, and he hisses at me, then grabs them. I am used to being hissed at. I recognize it as a sign of affection.
Don't call me at work again, no no, the boss still hates me. I'm just tired, and I don't love you anymore, and there's a restaurant we should check out, where the other nightmare people like to go -- I mean nice people. Baby, wait -- I didn't mean to say "nightmare" . . .
I can't wait to cook tonight, I haven't cooked in forever.
Today is a High Holiday for me, so to speak. Happy holiday, folks! And happy birthday to Teege. And to the late Adolf Hitler. And to my late grandmother.
Both my grandmothers are/were named Dorothy.
Not R. Dorothy.
Speaking of birds, there's a bird who lives near me who sings at night. What bird sings at night? Besides a nightengale. His song doesn't seem likely to inspire . . . stuff. Isn't there something with a nightengale in it? A play? A folk tale? Something Asian, maybe? A memory from my childhood tickles. It may involve a diorama.
I should get out of here.
P.S. Fuck Texas in its big ugly hat.