i don't want to be a tree, i want to be its meaning

[iceinyourmusic]

I want, I want, I want to. I don't know what I want. Counting options, one, two, minus ninety-eight. Spent my May Day working, the wrongness-rightness of that, or I could go out on the balcony for a smoke, or I could talk about Schizophrenic (you would talk about Schizophrenic) more, but everyone else has already done that, or I could eat and turn into blubber or not eat and still turn into blubber, nice warm weather today, the parents spent a week at the cottage and spilled white wine on the floor and got ants all over the place, I could go into how quaint it sounds in my head when I say "cottage", but I could also not go into that, could read, still have work to do, don't think the movie theatres are open today, it's Saturday, I don't like being sober, what kind of a balloon I would have liked, there's a political essay in the expanding European Union for the taking, could not write email about closure and moving on, could not have dreams about receiving email, the fridge probably needs cleaning, and I still have work to do. Yesterday, I blogged just because I wanted to write down this: I will eat your skin for money.

It can't go on the lj unless I mean it.

Also, I would love to try new music, it's not that I wouldn't, I just never find it.

My laptop at work is black and heavy, I poke at Access and it says meep.

See Leea quote from the Pamuk. Quote, Leea, quote.