Astral Camper

I’ve been saying it a lot lately in a lot of other contexts than my own but emotional honesty is danger.

Hi there, rain.

I am wasting time hoping for an alternate route to emerge.  Time to haul out the machete and just start thwacking.   I have a metric shit-ton to do today and the malaise just is hanging as heavy as the clouds overhead.  Someone has to take their pea shooter and send some rain seed up there and shake things loose.


I will pack:  camera (which is actually at work, so remember that), phone, charger, computer, charger for that, all the drugs and alcohol, oh, I am remembering this great list post years ago in some other blog that I am going to need to track down, Jack (the man who has no visible problems), that car horn when people start jacking me around, at least five dresses, capris, a book (though I may have had a small breakthrough with the terrible, no good book about eating by trying to understand it as a pamphlet on sensualism, but I still want to stab the author and her cooking instructor in the head [metaphorically, which is something this good woman should be duly acquainted with having never come across one she didn’t like]), small, wee little shampoo and conditioning bottles, makeup  (not the whole bloody counter, please), these sweet pellets of rain tap dancing on the skylight, my ability to spell, flowers for my hair and all the bobby pins we can filch off the cops, my headphones, get my sandals, make sure I have a pen and the flight information, my tarot cards, hair things, pajamas, another two sets of actual clothing.   And all the under things one can stuff in a rolling backpack.  I need to bring patience.  Kindness.  A smile.  The werewithal to deal with the WHEN ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED questions without resorting to answers like OH I DON’T KNOW.  WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DIE? Which would actually be rather disheartening considering my grandfather’s pushing 90 and he has an uncle who is still alive.  YEAH.  NO.  NOT JOKING.  Let’s not joke.

I should:

Shave my legs again this evening.  Wash my hairs and put curlers in.  Paint my nails.  Pack.   Write on the story.  Not play Mass Effect until all of this is done and done well.  Make my playlists on my phone with all the Mumford I can find.  Download some podcasts.   Get the mascara tube out of the couch cushions.   Make sure the purse is transfered into the wristlet.   Make sure I get change tomorrow for tipping.  Pretend my goddamned shopping list and planning materials are, in fact, the exact kind of bullshit people (there is in fact, more than one and none of whom do I know) subscribe to this blog to read.  Pretend you have any clue why anyone reads anything you write.   Plan to get up early enough to take the curlers out of your hair and slap the makeup on your face.  Get the face cleaner, toothbrush, toothpaste, cotton balls, moisturizer and all other manner of feminine preparations and put them in the little polka dotted case.

I will see you all tomorrow for more fun and games.