Catastrophony

And so he slinks back into his cave, so well known.  Deep within the darkness and the warmth there is safety.  There is the familiar echo of his voice.

Her: You know the only reason I brought up other guys in front of you was to make you jealous.  I hoped it would, you know, light a fire under you.  Get you to ask me out.

Him: It only ever made me depressed.

I would have to say, for my taste anyway, a real martini (that is, a gin martini) is better than a vodka martini.  Shaken and strained.  With those little flecks of ice floating on top.  So good, so cold, when it hits your lips.

Have you ever burnt yourself in effigy?  On that note, I have never actually burned anyone in effigy.  What with being a pyro and all, you would think I would have gotten around to it.  At least a Guy Fawkes.  But no.  And I think that’s sad.  I would cry if I were the crying sort.  No, that is a lie.

The wheels are in motion, but I don’t know who is driving.  It isn’t that my life is completely stagnant.  Not quite.  Not yet.  Things are happening.  Or I am working on making them happen.  It’s just that I am in one of the worst parts of the transition.  I think.  If I am wrong then this is going to get much worse.  Did I mention that I have never really cared for holidays?

Oh, well.  Welcome back.  And here’s to 300 more.

***
“Home, where my thought’s escaping.  Home: where my music’s playing.  Home: where my love lies waiting silently for me.”
- Paul Simon, “Homeward Bound”