and i'm reading online ramblings by friends and unfriends and correcting their grammar and spelling more than i am actually listening to what it is they have to say.

i'm writing pointless ramblings online thinking of the books i'm currently reading and how much i admire certain authors and where do you get an idea like interlacing little-known "how to"s about cleaning blood out of a fur coat, and other various substances, and how do you go about getting that information anyway?

it's 825. pm.

and my mother is hollering at me something about how much she loves clean bathrooms and "but oh i'll have to buy some more bleach.. you know what i mean" and i don't get it, so i just say "mhmm".

"that wasn't very convincing"

and she giggles at her silly self-proclaimed wit as i type and type and not listen.

earlier my sister called. she was telling me something about some tv show about people who had been abducted by aliens and eventually they returned to earth, but they hadn't aged a bit, but i was too busy thinking about cults and killers and long lost twin siblings.

her husband is a dork.

825pm.

the kids are yelling outside and the fishtank's waterfilter is at it again and i don't have shit to say much less anything to listen to. not that i would if i could, but the only thing i can really tune into these days is the things i'm trying not to. the waterfilter. the typing. the sounds of a discontent machine. hot damn, i think it's about that time.

it's 825, the sun is working on setting.

and i think this is the part where i go back into the living room. back to my spot on the couch that is still wearing my indent. i think it's time for me to go back and pick back up that book, the one the author signed as we bantered meaninglessly about fleetwood mac and holidays.

it's 825 and if i could be doing anything right now, anything in the world, it'd be taking a bubblebath in that author's hotel room tub.

and ignoring him.

past. : present. : future.