Potatoes

Yeah. Today I didn’t get a call from the clerk at Nothin’ Butt Smokes. So I didn’t go over there to describe the place. If I don’t get a call later tonight, I’m writing about the Baptist Church next door that got vandalized. It was less recent, but it’s closer, and there’s not likely to be much smoking. I’ll call over there Sunday morning and set up an appointment. It’ll be fun. I think. I wonder if they’ll talk to me. Yikes.

This “weekend’s” readings are about Marxism. I get to read the Manifesto of the Communist Party, something about Capital, and a few theory articles about that stuff. I never much got the concepts they taught us way back when in high school economics class. I made it a point not to take economics in undergrad. Now it comes back in the form of theory. How inconvenient. I’ve read about a fourth of my stuff, and that’s not so great, since I have the remaining bits tomorrow, as well as a family tree for another class, and the write up of the crime scene stuff.

Well I haven’t finished my readings for Monday, but I *have* read The Turn of the Screw, so I’m not behind per say, just ahead in other ways… I still need to read the critical articles in the book before I can call it done, but I have this terribly over active imagination, and can’t read ghost stories and all that after about three or so in the afternoon. Or my sleep gets really weird. You remember the Communion dream? That was normal. It was undisturbed. Uninfluenced by outside sources. Tonight, there might be problems. I almost hope the people upstairs get frisky again, because they’ll be a welcome distraction from the horrors my mind will concoct while I lie there afraid to close my eyes.

While I didn’t do readings, I have done laundry. And I did a few dishes. But I made many more dishes dirty in the process of making dinner, so I have accomplished nothing in that area. And my title up there does make some sense. I have mashed potatoes for dinner. I had purchased a large sack of them a few weeks ago, and they were starting to wrinkle, so I figured I had better make them into something I could eat for dinner before they started rotting or anything nasty. I made about half of them, and now have little Tupperware containers in my fridge filled with glorious white fluffy potatoes. They’ll go to lunch with me along with the Cup-o-Noodles I’ve accumulated.

Lots of carbs/starch, huh? Guess I’d better admit it: I fluctuate between not caring about the Atkins craze and despising it. I can no longer go anywhere and see healthy food. Instead it is all “Eat your heart out: Bacon bits are healthy now!” Whatever happened to a moderation approach to eating? Huh? A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and no cravings for carbs or fat or whatever, because you get enough of everything to be satisfied, and nothing is totally off limits. I like that approach, myself. It’s called eating naturally. Real foods, and enough of them. Not too much, mind, but not starving either. And so I had potatoes for dinner. I sprinkled some cheese on top, and they were very tasty.

A disclaimer to those of you readers who do not know me: I would never harm a child, animal, or any other living thing, regardless of age or whatever else. Saying things like the below comment prevents my anger at the children, animals, or other living things from getting out of hand. Please recognize that I have not, am not now, nor will ever in the future harm or cause to be harmed any children, animals, or other living things. As for the occasional crass, violent, or otherwise possibly disturbing comments I make, feel free to interpret them as I intend for them to be interpreted: as harmless nonsense that will never take place. If you interpret these things as serious threats to those children, animals and other living things around me, please feel invited to keep your *incorrect* interpretation to yourself, or to leave this blog. There. Now are we clear? I am a person venting, people, not a sadistic bastard. Got it? Good. Now if you want, keep reading. If this disclaimer has you scared or just a little worried, you might want to consider this posting ended for the day. You’re not missing anything. Here. I’ll make it easier on your conscience if it cares about leaving the post unfinished. END. There. Happy? You read the end. Now for those of you have senses of humor, or who aren’t inclined to take everything literally. Please read on.

The “children” in the pool are in need of a loaded semi-automatic. This sounds bad. Let me rephrase that. The beauteous cubs of our society’s sexual exuberance are joyously entertaining themselves in the sparkling pool next door to the apartment of your humble author by holding a “let us sing angelically at the tippy-tops of our lungs and judge which child among us can scream in this manner both the loudest and the longest” contest. In short, they’re loud and screaming, and if someone’s not dying over there to make that racket, I can certainly change that if this doesn’t stop soon. Yes. You’ve guessed right. I have no children. I don’t anticipate a change in this condition. Not for a long, long time. And when I do get married and have kids, people will just have to understand that my children’s vocal cords will have been removed at an early age. Surgically, mind, not with a kitchen knife or anything. It’ll be very humane, and they’ll learn sign language, which is much more preferred in my mind when it comes to the sounds of children’s voices.

Why do children feel the need to scream? If they just didn’t scream, they’d be so much more tolerable to me. Sass you, fine. Learn dirty words and utter them at inappropriate moments, fine. Refuse to be potty trained, fine. Eat only macaroni and cheese, fine. Throw up all over the furniture, fine. But screaming for no reason? Definitely not fine. If someone is attacking, or if there’s a bloody limb, or a tiger’s loose in the playground, or something serious that needs the attention of a nearby responsible adult, go ahead and let loose. Alert that adult already. But this constant crying wolf so irritates me that I imagine the severe punishments I would inflict on children who scream all the time. Like those ones in the pool. If someone isn’t drowning, or being otherwise in danger, for the love of God, shut the hell up. When it gets cold here, they won’t be swimming. I look forward to winter.

And for those of you who are such wonderful people that didn’t get frightened off by my disclaimer, I’ll throw in a tidbit that the squeamish are missing out on. Like you care. I know. But here it is. I need to go the fish store and get some medicine for my betta. The poor guy is too active, and kind of mashes himself against his bowl like he never used to. I changed their water (I have three at this point, which is a vast improvement over the sixteen I used to have), and the other two are still acting like themselves, but poor Albany has been unhappy lately, and I think he may have something. So I’ll go get him some medicine if I can find anything that matches his symptoms, and see if he doesn’t improve. The other fish, if you wanted to know, are Edgar and Kent. These three are the only ones left. Interestingly, they are also named after the only surviving decent characters from King Lear. Told you I think differently. And no, the others didn’t die. I gave them away to friends who wanted fish. I just didn’t want that many anymore. Changing water was an afternoon project, and there just wasn’t enough horizontal space for them. But anyway, don’t you feel special, because you stuck with me and got to hear about fish. Yeah. Well, I’m going to end this now, because I have to read the communist manifesto, and maybe go to bed some time. End.