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My belly pooches
With a full day's worth of snacking.

Was I here for my random hunch?

No -- I think I was rambling about it in my old paper journal. Finished that puppy earlier; felt a little deflated about the new one, despite its appealing qualities.

The ramble went down like so: "I feel like something's going to happen -- someone's going to call, or show up." Well -- it came true, a night later: today.

Sarah dropped by.

We headed to Timmy's, and had little treats. That's the second time in a row now that I've done that. I paid for my friend-in-tow, both times.

Sarah says, officially, that she's giving notice. She hopes to move in the area, or uptown a little. She figures she'll be stuck in the north shore residential area. I came from there, and have no want to go back.

Sarah's visit was based around the fact that she was dying to tell me that she and Aaron had pinpointed the source of my mysterious intelligence: I form relevant opinions about things that I come in contact with. I'm opinionated as fuck, and tend to defend my bases on such things.

I'm still reeling from my quick flirtation with adoring Castro. I still say that the dude has fucking balls. I sort of have the same conclusion that I ended up with, with Lenin, initially: started off meaning well, prolly fell in to corruption as a detour. Corruption on Castro's part seems to be random political killings (if they REALLY piss him off), and censorship. I still am clinging to my hope of a genteel dictator. Ah, to be so young, and naive...

I hung out with Linds today, as well as yesterday. Today, we went down to the fabric store/Dollar Store to hunt down basic supplies for my dinosaur sewing machine. Linds advises hunting down a manual. I seem to have a Kenmore 16, if I'm recalling correctly. Maybe my poor Googlefu will cull something up.

My belly's loose enough that I can grab a little handhold and give it a shake. *Shake shake* just like bellydancing. No grace, though. Just flippity-floppity flub.

I keep thinking of my brief intro to art therapy. Ee-fucking-gah -- can I really handle analysis of my silly doodles? Is there really a subconscious force, guiding my insanity/issues out on paper? I stick to my notion that it's prolly more a thing of suggestion. You trick yourself in to solving your issues, via random images. When I see my random doodles, I see none of me in them. Similarly, in prose -- where am I, in poor Joe Collins? I KNOW where I am in my Floras and Charlies. Those 3 were tailored after me. But, Joe? Joe -- where in you is my personality, my little drunken bastard?

I'm not kind to drunks in my stories.

I keep thinking I'll get back in to writing again. My poetry book informs me that I haven't come up with anything new in 7 months. Has it really been that long..? Prose can't be far behind. My story site says March. 4 months?

Maybe my depression is hitting me harder than I've been noticing...

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*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

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Circa 2010