I love the pet store.

My boyfriend and I went out to have pizza last night. While we were waiting, he suggested we walk around, and I said we go to the pet store.

On the one hand, it was kind of sad. Both of us are working all the time, so it's not really feasible for us to have a pet that requires more attention than a fish tank, or maybe a lizard requires. I'm down with that; I'd love to have a pet snake, but that would be a dealbreaker for living with my boyfriend, who would be super, super uncomfortable with that notion. My suggestion that I get a burrowing snake that he would never see did not go over well (which is fine, because realistically if I had a snake it wouldn't spend that much time in its cage and much time pretending to be a necklace.)

On the other hand, watching chinchillas is a great way to kill time while you're waiting for dinner to finish baking.

Conundrummery

So here's the trouble.

My current plan is to go to sleep, wake up, and drive to New York, all daisy fresh and cheerful and whatnot. Perhaps I'll stop at some style of megastore and buy some new music, perhaps not.

The trouble is, though, that I'm not tired. Not remotely. There is a comfortable bed several feet from me, and I'd love to go over there and crash out on it, but the impulse to crash out is not yet existant. It refuses to well up in me and take dominance. I'm just here, awake, and, horrors! Feeling PRODUCTIVE, like I should go make sure every little thing is packed, so that I can jet out as soon as I wake up, which I'll never do if I never sleep.

This is a job for Valerian, I suppose, except that I'd hate to drive all that way burping up that terrible ass flavor.

Really, this is just a job for whining.

WHIIIIIIIIINE.

It's mine, mine, gloriously mine!

My roommates have all left for their respective Christmas breaks, and for however many hours between the time when I get home tonight and when I wake up tomorrow and leave for my parent's house, the apartment is MINE.

And the anticipation is AMAZING.

I have these beautiful plans to make Tequila Sunrises and proceed to play Soul Calibur 2 until I'm uselessly incoherent, eating white rice and uncooked past in the meantime. Maybe I'll invite other people, maybe I'll just make a night of it on my lonesome, screaming incoherent obsceneties at Voldo as he smoothly breakdances his way across the screen.

Bliss.

In other news, I fabricated a walk of shame yesterday.

The hole in our ceiling has been more or less patched up. When I left the apartment, Sam was waiting for the painters to come and re-monotonize the ceiling colors. We gave them a bit of a start yesterday; neither of us had expected them to return until this afternoon, but they wanted to put down some preliminary coats before the real work began.

In spite of the hour, Sam had just woken up. Since his bedroom is a bit on the trashed side - all that couldn't be shoved into a desk was shoved onto the bunk bed - so he spent the evening (and most of the morning, and a section of the early afternoon) sleeping on the love-seat sized bean bag chair occupying our living room floor. He slept in his boxers, and I would occasionally wander in and out of the living room to find him recurled into a new form of fetal ball. Occasionally we would talk, but the conversations were usually cut short because he would fall back asleep. I wasn't looking too sheveled myself, since I didn't have any significant plans for the day that required me looking particularly presentable.

Understand, nothing about Sam's appearnace would strike a stranger as being inherently homosexual. He was just rousing when the painters arrived, and was still mostly unclothed when they knocked on the door. He stood to the right of the door, debating whether to put clothes on if it was just a friend stopping by (as the blog's title would imply, we live in a lingerie colony; full nudity isn't approved of in mixed company, but anything short of it doesn't raise any eyebrows), and I opened the door a crack, since I was on my way out to run some errands.

"Hello?" I asked.

"We're here for the roof," they replied.

"Ah," I said, then turned to my right. "Sam, put your pants on."

The maintenance men gave me a curious, nosy look, as we all waited and listened to the rustling of blue jeans. They guffawed and nudged each other, and I smiled blandly. They looked at my semi-disheveled hair and smiled broadly. (How little they know. In reality, my sex hair is much less coherent.)

"Okaaaay," Sam said, and I opened the door and let them all in, and waved goodbye as I left, running my fingers through my hair.

(This story was much funnier in my head.)

Hey, my bass is back (so you better start a-runnin)

Strange day; I woke up for the dozenth time in the semi-light of my room, this time because my alarm clock was chattering rather than the other times, because it seemed like a rouse-worthy idea until the necessary time passed in which I recognized my surroundings and went back to sleep. Then there was the arguement to stay in bed; the boiler is still in a state of half-repair, so convincing myself to slip out from under that exquistively warm comforter is exceptionally tricky. Sadly, the little voice in my head reminded me that if I stayed there too long, I'd fall back asleep, and that would mean I'd be late for work, and then I'd be fired, and oh, the horrors. Overall laziness, to avoid looking for other work, overrode temporary laziness. The next task was to make it to the shower and wash the smell of hippy out of me. (Surprisingly enough, the elderly are not generally fond of hippy-smell. I myself like to twiddle with my hair and get a nice little whiff of Nag Champa, but at some point in your life span I'll apparently cross a line where it must, MUST be only Herbal Essences.)

Work was the usual tedium; stay awake, do Nonograms for eight hours, go home. Except this time, I swung by the music building, picked up the loaner bass I'd been leant, and skipped back to the mall to switch back for my beloved Phinaes. I hung about Borders, trying to look nonchalant (which is hard, with the nice-work-outfit with the cashmere and the heels, and a wonderful blue lump strapped to me. Small children watched me in fascination. Teenagers milling around Hot Topic, struggling to be alternative, stared in silent awe. I stood and read, keeping an eye on the poor sales clerk who couldn't decide whether they should start a conversation with me or not. Eventually my cell rang and I booked across the mall (Note: Attention whores! Jogging through a mall with a bass on in heels is an INSTANT attractor), stopping only once to laugh in the face of that one, necessary, ballsy bastard that asked if I wished I played piccolo. No, of course I don't! I was getting my bass back, my delightful darling dearest!

And life was all roses and gumdrops again.

Morning nonsense

Kate and Sam and I drove to Toledo last night, for all the love that's involved in Beethoven 5 and Shostakovich 11. It was a warm and wonderful sort of performance; I had mixed feelings about the third movement of the Shosty, but the most of it was intense and brutal and bestial, mixed in with the gentle caresses of strings and bells. Love.

Apparently this inspired Sam more than we'd anticipated, because this morning, I woke up to the vicious, hateful strains of Shostakovich 10's second movement. On the one hand, I was moderately annoyed to be awoken less than eight hours after I'd gone to sleep. On the other hand, I love that song a great deal, and it was almost a nice way to wake up.

Delicious.