This, too
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Hello. I've been sleeping all wrong hours.
Where ever a twenty-fourth of the day has been found to carry the bad seed, I have slept the hell out of it. I am not good at naps. I am not good at plans. I am tired and I am awake.
I am going to talk to you about my hair. This is a very boring subject, so you might want to come around and hit me with a shovel or similar smelling thing.
There it is, on top of my head...
...I'm the one with the hair.
My head's the other guy, and that's a shirt-sleeve. There's some shelves, but they aren't as important.
I always need a haircut, because I always get a bad one. It just happens that an affordableish hairdressers exists exactly less than a billion miles from my house. In fact, if I weren't staring at a monitor in front of a brick wall, it'd be clear in my line of sight right now. Sadly, its participant workers don't understand words that don't relate to one's job or holiday prospects, and tend to just do what they like. I think that they like townies.
Well, as ever, I wouldn't really know what to ask for, anyway. I've come to the impossibly vague conclusion that I don't like having especially short hair. 's fine on top and at the front. I didn't need to go anywhere new to know that I don't want a consequence of that to be mullet-related. I'd have taken the picture from behind, but as you can see, the attemt was starting to annoy me as I learned that I have no hand-eye co-ordination to speak of. Anyhoo, apparently, that is not enough information, thus going for a hair cut becomes painful and unwanted like cracking a tooth or listening to an impossibly New Labour guidance councilor or something else that would be bloody awful.
Help!
Now there is late-night television. 'tis a familiar documentary film about countries that the US has fucked up and left. Bit like Britain did a couple of generations earlier in all those countries that didn't previously exist, then did, then changed their names and fell over going, "Argh, I've got ZANU-Baath-Amin-Dada of the liver!" or something. The chap's talking about how much more effort went into fighting popular communist movements than now goes into stopping the drugs barrons that have sort of arguably-ish replaced partisan groups in Latin America. It is a little funny, that. We're supposed to believe that drugs cartels can't be stopped, but the heroic United States did manage to thwart a global economic and political movement and bring down the USSR. Yeah, those two ideas can be easily reconciled, even an ostritch can do it.
Why 'they' think they have any business trying to stop either, I don't know. Well, I do, but you get my meaning, probably. Partly. I was going to say something else about the drugs trade, instead of communism, for a change, but I'm just too sober and tired to go through with it.
Also, stamps, why do I keep forgetting to acquire first class stamps? Blast! I walked past the post office, today, but no, that didn't make me think of the stamps that I needed to acquire. It, apparently, made me think that I should go to the chippy and buy a sasuage.
I heard that the Manics were playing the Cardiff charity craptacular for tsunami relief gubbins. I was wondering, "would they dare..." I supposed not, and also thought that, "gosh, they've gone all pants this last decade or so."
Lucy's magically reappeared in that soap I don't still watch all the time. That's lovely.
I shall let you know that I am perhaps not very well.
And that I am lost.
Hopelessly.
And I am sad about it.
For just a moment, this morning, I mistook bleach for mouthwash.
...came washing over me
tsun... no, I assume that they didn't.
4:07 a.m. - 2005-01-26
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