residue

My little car is parked in nearly the same spot it was when it was stolen last July. I am trying to remember that there is a difference between not caring and not worrying.

Work stress has messed with my sleep schedule over the past few days, and the short story I’m wrasslin’ has consumed my every waking hour. I think part of me has a crush on the protagonist, while being really frustrated with how he’s behaving, which is a strange but not unwelcome feeling.

I had a dream in which the MSG told me that he was taking my goldfish to his house because I couldn’t give it enough sunlight. But I do not have a goldfish. If I did, I would certainly give it enough sunlight. I fear Zen would give it too much pawlight and toothlight, though.

In this dream, the MSG also ate part of a meal he prepared for me over a month ago, since it was still in the fridge. (It’s not, in waking life.) I was terrified that he was going to throw it all up, but he just kept burping and laughing, burping and laughing.

In the dream, I was drinking Laphroaig on the rocks (two). That sounds mighty fine just now. According to me, I feel like used cheesecloth, and according to a friend, I might be texture and not residue.

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

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