29 September 2013

Sunday's Stream of Conciousness

My apartment isn't airtight.
It was built before they did that kind of thing, and it's a little ramshackle, so when the wind blows outside like it's doing now--it whistles. I'm not sure if it whistles through the window frames or the walls or both or neither, but it doesn't really matter.

Is it weird that it's comforting?

The temperature is chilly with autumn air, the leaves are beginning to turn colors outside, I should be doing laundry or making a grocery list or attempting to clean the mass of wood chips and sawdust off my carpet or organizing my kitchen cabinets. Instead I'm on my fourth cup of tea, eating toast and puttering about on the internet.

I like to think about a lot of things. Like if I should start using British spelling instead of American; I like it better, even with the extra letters, but it seems . . . unpatriotic, perhaps? I don't know. The brits have a lot of things going that I like, tea and full breakfasts and good television shows and marriage equality and funny cars, but they also have a monarchy just for tradition's sake and a national religion and bad dental care and bloody awful weather. And maybe the state of their country is completely irrelevant to which spelling is preferable in mine.

I need to make soup today. Soup and vinegar pickles, because I've acquired a mass of garden-fresh cucumbers that aren't going to preserve themselves.

I have about seventy million tabs open in firefox right now, and I don't even remember why I opened half of them.

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