A few days ago I tossed something off about liking a mid-day thunderstorm (yes, I know, I used tossed off on purpose, the pun and it’s implications intended. With all due respect and humility that is sort of the point of calling a journaling site a social network; tossing off.)
This morning I’m not quite feeling the love. It’s just dreary and the rain is hard but not serious and the thunder is low grumbling and the lightening to far away to even know what the grumbling is about and everything outside is green gray and when the sun eventually comes out all that water will go a few feet in the air and just stay there for the rest of the summer just to entertain the skeeters.
Alaska is awfully proud of their skeeters and individually they are mighty skeeters and they do have a sense of urgency, but pound for pound in a skeeter steel cage death match my money is on the Michigan skeeter. It’s all about the fucking and the feeding with the Michigan skeeter, I guess it’s like that with all skeeters, but the Michigan skeeter knows my DNA, generations of Michigan skeeters know my DNA, and their intelligence is more like Mossad than the CIA or M-6. They don’t fuck around. Wait, no, they do fuck around, and bite, that’s all they do. I meant they don’t mess about.
I’m having mailman related troubles. I might have the time and energy to explain what that means but by putting it in print I’d have to admit how petty it is. I’m having mailman troubles sounds ominous. I ever so would like to sound ominous, ever so. That and the rank son of a whore keeps scanning shit as delivered before he leaves the fucking postal armory. Um, they just call it an office, but you and I both know it’s an armory.
If I had a mission for the day, you know one of those affirmation be a better person type of thing, it’d be to be grateful for something, anything. Eh, maybe tomorrow.
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