After several hours of abject self-hatred and black depression I attempted to sleep, which resulted in me perking up and feeling like a glass of milk and some Wodehouse. I haven’d had rapid-cycling moods like this since the Old Therapy Days. Nostalgie de la bleue, peut-etre?
[A priest passes by outside, intoning THERE IS NO SALVATION OUTSIDE THE CHURCH]
I’m as crazy as THREE German Expressionists!
I wonder how cats in the wild get their chins scratched?
When I was asleep for a short time an hour ago, I had a dream in computer logic. In the dream I was writing a Perl program that opened a file and sorted it into two columns, writing it out to a socket. But I felt the parser opening the file line by line and arranging the columns, as though I was kneading bread or combing the cat. This isn’t the first time that’s happened, either.
This week has been a naked lunch, every piece of food on every fork exposed.
A couple of fresh strawberries, cold from the fridge, excuses a lot of things in life.