He had gone into the place of things that are...

He had gone into the place of things that are...
The full quote is:

"He had gone beyond the world of metaphor and simile into the place of things that are, and it was changing him." - Neil Gaiman (Neverwhere)

Guess who read a book? Yes, snitches, yours truly. I'm still reeling from the Quaddafi revelation of my second-to-last blog, but I needs my realities adjusted occasionally. My new class has started and everyone is middle-aged and chasing their dreams. I've decided I, too, am middle-aged and chasing my dreams, I just *look* like a teenager. Heh heh heh.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a wonderful day in the neighborhood...can you believe my little sisters never watched Mr. Roger's Neighborhood? That was quality television, better than almost everything that is on now. Between Mr. Roger's and Sesame Street I had manners reinforced, my imagination validated, developed a simulataneous fear and affection for wooly mammoths and big yellow birds, learned to embrace my cantankerous side and learned the merits of Super Grover and handpuppets!

Barney was second rate in comparison.

My man-friend is back in town and we're learning to live together again. We do this every so often, have to get reacquainted. We have different rhythms, I'm a night person, he's a day person - we get along well between 5pm and 1 am. After or before is kind of sketchy.

I've had a gnat of worry in the back of my head about THINGS TO GET DONE. None of them are that important. I think my real worry is *asshole coworker returning to the office whom I do not want to deal with at all, ever again and i wish he would just go away like his homegirl did*.

Yeah, that's what is bothering me cause writing it made me feel better. Re-reading the sentence I have to chuckle, that's exactly what I'm feeling. There is a litany of things for me to get worked up about: what if he talks to me? what if I'm expected to talk back? what if he asks me a question? I know he's not going ot like my answers, but professional protocol requires i reply and - oh holey jesus' drawers - put up with whatever cutting remarks he makes about inconvenience to him, his lifestyle - who gives a fuck about him? I mean, other than him. He's in no way endeared himself to me or anyone else. I just imagine him with saggey pants and poop running down his leg - that's how much I do not like dealing with this....creature.

I know that's not nice or evolved or any of the other things I achieved while under anesthesia and hopped up on morphine and contemplating life, the universe and the wonders of having my intestines hang outside my body. Well...there's perspective. There is nothing he can say that even come close to my intestines hanging outside of my body or buckets of my blood washing over the floor as I stare in horror and go into shock.

here's to Sunday afternoons and Monday mornings! Monday, monday....