I know, I know. It’s all been links and pictures lately.
I need to go all introspective and philosophical.
Or write something lascivious about some true-life adventure.
Or some pornographic excerpt from a piece I’m working on.
Only I’m doing nothing but work, even with my boss out. I got nothing new to talk about other than the fucking Amazing Race.
I can’t even say much about the trip I’m trying to get planned to dive the florida keys because I’m not even sure yet that I’m gonna go; I might not be able to swing the time of get things schedules the way I want. I might not be able to fit my agenda in with the realities and limitations of my schedule.
So I got nothin’.
I’m not even really reading much, or watching much TV. Ok, there’s Carnivàle, which fucking rules this season, twice as creepy and not as slow (and oh lord, the scene where the old priest is listening to — well, if you watched it, you know what I mean). But there’s not a damned thing on that I care about other than that.
I need a vacation. I’m starting to get that compressed feeling, where I want to cut and run and get as far from work and home as I can. Like my head’s gonna explode pretty soon if I have to look at another pile of laundry, fix the same software problem or explain the same issue with a tool’s limitatations one more time.
I’m thinking warm breezes and water and rum, no telephones or televisions. A lot of time sleeping in a hammock.
One way tickets. I like the sound of that.
Maybe just a little rape and pillage. To, you know, keep from getting bored.