Placeholders are boring
And this one is no exception. Sorry!
See, we were back to the blank screen. And we can't have that. So here I am, all up to remedy that shit and everything, but...uh. I am absolutely exhausted. I'm not thinking straight, and I am totally incapable of entertaining anyone at the moment.
I've been working long hours lately (I know!), doing law things and writing important papers and making angry legal arguments and sometimes attending meetings that are south of the airport at 7 in the morning, which is very early, and the airport is very far away, and just...I mean, life's been pretty damn boring, y'all. I have some stories to tell y'all (because, of course I do) but I just can't seem to write them out in any type of coherent manner right now. I have written and deleted this entry about six times. (This boggles the mind, because the end product doesn't not suck, if you get my double negative meaning). But if things aren't making any sense to me, I promise, they would read like Swahili to y'all (this assumes you don't speak Swahili. Maybe you do! I do not). The last deleted attempt actually included the word "honestlyness."
Y'all, "honestlyness" is not a word. It does not even resemble a word. It is not even a word in Swahili.
In a positive (shut up! It is positive to ME) note, I have taken many fascinating pictures of the dogs, particularly Bo with his mouth open (why? WHY? Why does the dog talk all the time?), like, for example, this one:
(hee!), but I know. That really isn't cutting it. I know! And also, I really have no intention of turning this into a blog that contains nothing but pictures of Bo's molars, so I had probably best stop this behavior directly and place a moratorium on dog photos for at least, oh, twenty minutes.
So, please bear in mind that I am currently operating on about seven hours of sleep over the past three-day period. And sadly, things are not likely to improve, because I'm working on a Big Thing at the office, plus I have about ninety things going on outside the office, and the end result is that I am sleepy and confused. My brain has crawled somewhere deep into the recesses of my skull, and this means that my body is operating only on stray cells and air. Nobody is driving this bus, is what I am saying.
But this makes me slaphappy. At this point, all manner of things are funny to me. "Honestlyness" is funny to me. The word "boob" is funny to me. "Everybody Loves Raymond" is funny to me. I really kind of need to go to bed.
However. Because everything is funny to me right now (honestlyness!), I will share with you what has happened during the last two nights. Because at the moment, it is funny to me. When everything clears here and I actually do some sleeping for more than a two hour stretch and then wake up and reread all of this, I am sure it will seem stupid and I will be ashamed. But, still. It is better than blank. That is what I am telling myself.
But, anyway. See, I talk in my sleep. I do it all the time (not as frequently as Dukay, who recently woke me up at 4 to ask me a question about Cuba, but we are not talking about Dukay right now), but I still do it, on occasion, just the same.
Only, when I talk in my sleep, Dukay doesn't wake up; I do. I wake my own self up. I wake up, hear myself saying something, and then I have to sit there and ponder just exactly what the fuck I am talking about: "Why am I so concerned about the VCR?" "Since when am I in love with Adrian Brody?" "But I don't even know any hobbits!" This is what I think about in the dark.
So, it should have come as no real surprise when I awoke two nights ago to find myself sitting up at bed, pointing angrily at a sleepy and disgusted Bo.
"That fucking dictionary," I hollered. "It just thinks it's SO SMART."
Apparently, I'm mad. At the dictionary. I think I must be jealous of its knowledge. Webster, you SUCK!
(Which reminds me: know who I saw downtown a few weeks ago? Webster! The actual guy who played Webster, the precocious eight-or-whatever year old that was actually, like, forty-three. I have since been told that everyone in Atlanta sees him all the time, but for a very little (hee!) while, I felt special. He is actually bigger than he looks on television, which is supposedly the exact opposite of every other personality on the planet, but there you go. My very small brush with fame. Which is kind of related to the dictionary, see?)
Uh. Anyway. But, so that was two nights ago, right? And, at the time, I thought that was probably the strangest thing I'd ever said in my sleep. Until, last night, when I woke up to find myself happily proclaiming to all that Eureka!: "I am the inventor of the portable iron lung!"
I was kind of proud of myself, too. A portable iron lung! So much more convenient than those old iron ones. They were heavy and restrictive. But now, your iron lung is a lung on the go! You can take it anywhere, and I envision an ad campaign that is much like those we see for tampons or false hair ("Wait, I can still play tennis? No kidding? WHAT? I can go swimming? Seriously? God! I just feel so free!").
A portable iron lung, y'all. It is a happy day for science.
But, unfortunately, not for the dictionary. The dictionary is a cocky son of a bitch. And I mean that in all honestlyness.
Hope y'all are doing well! I'll be back soon, and I swear to Christ that it will be [somewhat] more entertaining.