Current mood:	grumpy
Current music:	Scrapes and Pops of a Hot Oven

RAT-A-TAT-TAT
Ish.

I've fallen into a big pile of escapism, thanks to ol' Laurell K. Hamilton and her Anita Baker series.

These books, these books, these dang books. I claim it's their fault that I just suck my thumb on the weekends, but, natch, it ain't. It's more recovery from a "be careful what you wish for, you might get it" sorta job, the commuting blues, and pure sleep deprivation. Burns my sweetie a bit, too, since, well, I'm not that much fun w/ my nose in a book or snoozing the day away.

And then, when I measure (twice) what I get out of it (cut once)...I'm left scratching my head in a tailspin of a ponder. Just the chance to let my mind wander somebody else's roads, not so much forging my own little paths.

Hm...overextended metaphors, I'm thinking. Or is that mastic fumes I've sucked down while laying vinyl tile in the downstairs bath?

The real problem: jumping through a hoop too many, juggling too many expectations, and feeling the twitch to shoot down some dogma...the while knowing the Spad's twin Vickers are better left unchattering. Catch more flies w/ honey than vinegar, and all...