Today Patrick Swayze died. Today I have lived for 11679 days.
Most of those joke emails that go around aren’t funny and the truisms are lame but the other day I read one that said something like: life isn’t short; it’s the longest thing you will ever do.
Today (at 4.15am) our gas oven exploded.
Today, somewhere around 5am we watched an episode of Tru Blood with the window wide open. Wide awake, with wide-eyed cats prowling and unsettled.
Today there were three new murders reported. Today there was nothing much, and then more nothing much.
And then more.
I worked at a steady pace. I listened to Rhian Sheehan’s NZ Landscapes album on repeat. I especially liked the rain part. I could have listened it to all day long if pesky facetime hadn’t been called for.
For the second day in a row I forgot to hand in the wallet I found on Hania St in the weekend.
I got some cards in the mail, mostly from organisations I spend money with. Including Weightwatchers. Happy birthday, fatty. Nice marketing.
Our cleaner wrote me a note telling me off for letting terrorists loose in the microwave.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Lauren is making me strawberry tirimasu and I am looking forward to that part of my birthday immensely. Happy birthday, fatty.
I listened to Trini Lopez at the gym, on the stairwalker. Man, that dude is happy! My favourite song of his is him covering the one that goes if you want to be happy for the rest of your life don’t make a pretty woman your wife something something get an ugly girl to marry you. Not even Kanye West would get away with those kinds of lyrics these days.
There is something to be said for ugliness, though; I do believe that. It has greater integrity and a certain gravitas (or something) if done properly.
The girl in purple and blue is Dorothy. This won’t be the last you see of her.
Sayonara 31. You may or may not be missed (I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but it remains to be seen).
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Tags: diary, dorothy doldrumatic, eternal youth, rituals