I feel bad every so often for our car. We have one old car and one older car. I take the old car to work – the older one’s for emergencies and/or last minute escapes. The old car squeaks, though. I turn the key so slowly whereas the usual key turners do it like they’re TRYING to twist it apart.

When dishes bang in the kitchen when he’s putting them away, he’ll say “sh” to them. I think that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And it’s scary-weird. I almost wish he’d yell “Fucker” or something. Instead he tells the inanimate objects to “sh” as if it’s a joke. As if THEY’RE the problem. Not that we need to figure out whose fault it is in dishbanging craziness. But own it.

Another sound I hate (Which i can hear from upstairs) is the sound of the remote dropping from the arm of the downstairs chair. It’s unsettling because first – it means the arm of the chair is a Thing, now. It’s an actual home for this motherfucker-remote. Secondly because it means that the person who’s sitting in it has changed positions. The drop of the remote suggests a phase change, and it happens infrequently sometimes.

I need the old car to not die, is what i’m saying. I never go too far, but my out’s are imperative. Also i need music when I drive. The old car has radio but no CD player. TOTALLY FINE. The Older car has nothing. I just prefer to drive to work with those provisions rather than without. Picky? Maybe. It’s a place for now, and I need a place.

But I really hate that “sh.” Even “Shush” is better. Ugh, no that’s weird too. Weird, locked-in-a-closet stuff that makes me so uncomfortable. All when the dishes are just being themselves. And it’s not funny. It’s fucking weird. Uh, sorry.

I hear the sound of carrot chewing from the computer room at 8:30 am. Little morning snack, are we? Eating baby carrots out of a plastic bag, depending on them so much that lacking them would mean…errr… IMMEDIATE OBESITY!And we don’t want to be normal, non-100%-Fat-Free, now do we? That’s just not orange enough for us. Each crunchy-chew screams a not-happy-with-yourself’ness that I can’t be around or witness. Things that are not better than me, and I need things to be Better Than Me. I try to shake off the weird but it won’t go away.

“You hold the key…” Madonna might say in a Frozen song (and/or music video) and I don’t know. I do know that Love is a bird and She needs to fly, though. I don’t know what we’re talking about.

In other news, J and I went to a comedy show last night to see our improv friend perform. Was so good. Meeting the comics and talking afterwards was cool. Meeting the comics who WEREN’T in the show but who just came to see and… observe… was cool, even more. Recognizing them from other shows. It’s all interconnecteddddd. (Me lacing my fingers, scrunching my face, trying to show you how I can interconnect my fingers really tightly to make a point.) People constantly striving for higher. It’s good and I like.


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