Please celebrate responsibly, monitor alcohol intake, and for [$DEITY]’s sake use a condom so you don’t plant a spawn in a drunken stupor. They’ll love hearing about that.
Daily Archives: December 21, 2020
Strange but not disturbing dreams. Dreams about flying cars, cars I almost owned, dreams about flying bikes, dreams about just flying. Before the wreck I used to fly, things. Mostly airplanes, some hang gliders, some ultralights, a helicopter for about 5 seconds before I gave the stick back to the guy really flying it. Helicopters are not flying machines, they are contraptions that somehow remain airborne. And this was about how the dream went, flitting from one scene to another, taking in a red Honda Civic for an oil change, flying a car over a bridge to an island that was extremely urban with lots of tall buildings (not the red Honda, it was dark silver) I was just sitting in the car someone else was flying, just flying between the buildings of the city without the car no segue, just went from flying in the car to just me by myself without anything except some insulated jumpsuit and harness and maybe a helmet? Then I was flying a bicycle somehow that hovered while I was looking for a place to park, and was just a regular crank-forward bicycle when it wasn’t flying.
I woke up about 0445 because Mrs. the Poet was pushing me out of the bed. I should have taken a picture where she was in the bed when I got out. Her head was barely on her pillows and the rest of her body was angled towards my side of the bed so that her feet were almost sticking out of the covers on my side. I also woke up because my bladder was full, and standing over the toilet was almost like the scene in “A League of Their Own” where Tom Hanks drained the main vein for over a minute of screen time. Yay visuals!
Somehow we seem to have a pantry full of ants again, and we lost a full, new box of crackers to the pesky beasts. Not the small box, the “family size” box of Cheezeits that we had just bought and Mrs. the Poet didn’t get to eat even one of them. She was very mad about throwing away food we had just bought yesterday. She was hollering about the “stupiDANTS” and that was exactly how she pronounced it, with the “d” appended to the “ants” and emphasized “DANTS”, making it all one word. When I look at it from an emotional distance it’s funny, but I know it isn’t funny for her. “StupiDANTS!”
We have come to grips with the fact that the kittens have either died or just ran away. We last saw Clint in late July when he stopped coming back after we changed food in an attempt to do something about his digestive issues, and Clyde left a couple weeks later when Mrs. the Poet declared him “feline non grata” for his digestive issues leaving little poops everywhere and we had to move his food and water dishes outside. After we moved the dishes outside he refused to come back in for petting, even though he really wanted to be petted. So we are looking for another cat, older and calmer that doesn’t scratch the furniture that has its shots and already neutered. Mrs. the Poet says this time we need to start with all new cat stuff, not leftover from 2 previous generations of cats. She thinks this might result in a cat that’s more comfortable with where it lives and doesn’t need to mark everything as “mine”.