[click image]I have to wait for the next trip to "the real world" to get them off my broken G5... and that could be weeks... if I can get my car that far again. I could be doing more to reconstruct my little universe, but I'm pouting too hard for that. I'm the worst example of a Zen mistress yer likely to find. Not because I don't have myriad worlds of jeweled flower adornments, all with Milky Ways cradling them, because, well, I do. The rub seems to come in at the communicating with you effectively part.
This really is irksome because it was always my problem and I'm supposed to not mind anymore that you can't hear... or... not mind how much I mind that you can't hear... be able to just let that be what it is without thinking of the harmonies and the satisfying suicide wailing and crashing... but... fuck.
You're in great distress. All the time. You're in a fetid little jail cell and you can't see the bars. I'm standing in the doorway, going, hey. Going, yo! Pst! Lookee hyere. Open cell door. C'mon.
See, I can't drag you kicking and screaming through it.
You gotta stop. Look. And get up and walk through it yourself.
This part is the worst for me.
Because I so could drag you through it.
But you'd just go back in and start griping again.
So my patience is always spinning on the edge of a black hole.
I don't want to be fighting this advancing decrepitude while engaged in your jail break thing, and that fries my perfection of patience to a crisp. It sucks planets.
[Glenn's on his knees, pleading even, falling on deaf ears called hearing....]
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