Few and Far Between.

That is how my blogs have been lately. I haven't wanted to write a thing about what has been going on. I'm worried I'll jinx it. For example, and ice cream cone. Ice cream, hooray! But suddenly you think about what if the ball of cream just rolled off the cone and onto the cement? Or worse, in the mud! With a priest watching! And it does fall. And he hears you swear. And you are so upset you don't ever get ice cream again.  Well. If you hadn't thought about it, it may never have happened. So there. My lips are sealed.

And I suddenly remember some words I was awfully familiar with. I wrote my best story about it.  Asomatognosia. The lack of awareness of the condition of part or one's whole body.  It is most interesting, when it is a pair of people experiencing this condition in one person of the pair.  One feels, or in this case, does not feel it, and the other person also refuses to feel it.  It's most unfortunate.  Perhaps the most deplorable portion of the condition is waking up post-revery realizing that the condition is still in effect.  Hence, my story title, "The Katzenjammer." A hangover from the condition in which you, and in my mind, another person, are unaware of the condition of your body.  I think in layman's terms, human affection is effective. Unless in dreams, and then it's just unfair.

The lighting in my bedroom is terrible.  At least it's not a cold dark, and instead it is a pleasant dark.  Soft, and like a hug. It doesn't feel like a basement at all. And it shouldn't.  I'm on the top floor.

It's almost another month.  What an unsatisfying statement that was! I will follow it up with a more important one.  On 26 April, 1986, the disaster at the Chernobyl Powerplant happened. As neat as nuclear power seems to be, let us never forget the huge risks involved, and for how long the consequences may last. Remember Chernobyl.

I refuse to get into anything else. Gag order. Here's a picture. (Of my beloved?)

applegize.

First of all, I had no intention of not writing since February.  In fact, I believe I have written 3 blogs since my last.  Good 'ol bloggy blogspot, though, seems to be ignoring me. Obscene. Watch, all the sudden they are going to show up, and I'll be redundant and look like a dunce. To conical hats! Whatever, here's a poem.

I wish I were a bricklayer,
bricking a perfect wall.
Or a paper-pusher in a visor.
Just not what I am at all.

My sentence structure's boring,
my fashion doesn't match.
I cannot get a suntan
and I cannot throw or catch.

I wish I were a deep sea diver,
restoring sunken boats.
But I cannot even swim in pools.
I cannot even float.

I wish I weren't so whimsical,
or looked into the stars.
Maybe I should be a scientist,
or learn to work with cars.

I cannot seem to self-improve.
I don't really get much better.
I won't ever be a "girl of dreams,"
Some guy will have to settle.

Settle for a dreamer.
An unmatched, tacky dreamer.
With cheap knowledge
and the desire to rhyme "femur" with "dreamer."

You're so, so pretty.
And I'm so, so plain.
And sadly on the inside,
I'm really quite insane.

So instead of writing a love poem,
which I'd really like to do,
I'm apologizing for my lacklusters,
and my mediocrities to you.