8:58 p.m. - 2005-05-03
amphoric
It's hard to shake out sentences lately...I think it's the humidity here, clogging up that little sugar-hole tab-thingy at the top of my skull. So for the time being I've set aside my work on the great American novel (specifically the fifth [annual] draft of the first half of the opening chapter thereof) and thrown myself whole-heartedly into frettin' and stressin'; two skills my apparent lack of care and documented lack of accomplishment belie an innate propensity for. It's weird- when I take a step back from myself and articulate (to myself, standing a step away) the fretful minutia over which I stress, it all seems really, like, minute. Until I get some bigger problems though, I guess it'll have to do... My girl's coming out to visit in a couple of weeks; this should quell the 'ol anxiety a bit. Among her manifold superpowers she lists the gift of 'sympathetic listening'. This dovetails nicely with my gift of 'loquacious narcissism'. Every evening back home, beer in hand, I fill her elegant little ear-holes with rambling anecdotes from my banal and tedious workday. My enthusiasm during these unsolicited debriefings is that of a Roman Centurion filling a looted alabaster amphora with a soldier's torrent of piss: guilty, relieved, base, and victorious...I miss her.
