Cluck.

This will not be a blog post. This will be a list. I am not really in the mood for deep exposition. Not really.

• Yesterday I spoke to my youngest sister (I have two. One is 10 years younger than I am, the other is 16 years younger. I am the OLD, OLD one). In the course of our meandering conversation I mentioned to her that I felt old because Prince was turning 50 this year. Her response? "I don't know who that is." Egad! Note to self, do not attempt to relate to a 15 year old. I am beyond that stage.
  
• I am trying to drink more water. Again. I go through phases with my water consumption. When I worked for FatHead in San Francisco he saw my desk was covered with bottles of water and said, "New Year's resolution to drink more water or something?" I don't think I hated him at this point. So I probably just said something silly and that was that. Retrospectively, I wish I had said something along the lines of, "Well, I hate this job so much that the only way I can live with the fact that I work for a perverted slime shit like you is to go home and drink a bottle of wine every night! So I need to find a way to stay hydrated." Certainly not me at my wittiest, but I'm curious as to what type of response I would have elicited from FatHead. I don't miss FatHead. Not at all. Another note to self: NEVER WORK FOR ANOTHER FUCKING LAWYER AGAIN!
  
• My sleeping patterns will not right themselves. The only benefit to this? I have seen quite a few interesting Olympic competitions. Handball (which did not involve a wall, not sure why I believed that it would), some kind of female weightlifting, water polo, swimming, some sport where the chicks were hunched over tiny-looking hockey sticks and were chasing a ball, (rather than a hockey puck) basketball, indoor and beach volleyball, and football . . . the REAL kind. Now ask me when I've slept! Quite frankly, I am sick of looking at Michael Phelps. But hot swimmers as a general thing . . . yes, please. When the fuck are the divers coming on???
  
• I have gotten sucked back into Project Runway. A sure sign that I have reached the abyss.
  
• I want to call TO1. I won't. But I want to call him.
  
• I have started a new project for myself. I keep a journal of words for which I don't know the meaning. These are customarily words I encounter while reading or watching intelligent film. Last night I began to type out the words and cut and paste their OED definitions into a Word document. With a library card one can obtain free access to the online OED. I live for that kind of shit. I will make my own dictionary. Sort of. This is what happens when you cannot sleep.
  
• I am spending too much time on the internet reading discussion threads and not looking for work. It just happened. What have I learned? People are fucked up, racist, homophobic, ignorant, and xenophobic. Oh, and they are also atrocious spellers and woefully devoid any capacity to use correct grammar.
  
• I have lost my libido. I went three years without so much as making out with someone. Not even a drunk makeout session. And then I moved to California and (whoa!), I could get laid. I'm not sure what to attribute it to. Perhaps the men there have lower standards, I'm not sure. All I know is that in six months I managed to have more sex than I had had in the entire last three years. TO1 was the only one I wanted more than just sex with; I wanted him. So, of course, I sabotaged it by being . . . me. My heart hurts. A lot. I am not bothered by the prospect of another three sexless years. It's a good thing I masturbate.
  

I am out of things to type.