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They say porn is the number one most popular use of the system of pipes, and it demoralizes me no end, but I just realized I look at porn every day: cabins; jars; upcycled stuff; bathtubs... not to mention the daily bombings and airstrikes somewhere upon this withering globe... so... maybe I should not be so harsh?
Naw. Porn? Really? That's pitiful... and gross. Please. Our nether parts, in the end, so to speak, seem to be the focus of perhaps the number one control tactic employed by the psychopaths to keep us distracted... hence the dazzling array of almost completely unclad pop stars and off color jokes on prime time TV.
Besides, actual love beats that business eighteen ways to Sunday. If you don't have it at the moment, fine. You can use that energy on enlightening being until someone comes along.
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Today has not made up its mind to rain... yet... a bunch of itty black clouds float over without dropping anything. Maybe they will gather at the mountains and spill something then, but at my house we keep putting on sweaters and then turning around and taking them right back off again.
My front room, the main place to find me at any given time, is maybe being ripped to shreds this week, unless it's nice enough to get back at the outside painting. I might need the suicide hotline if the indoor stuff takes anything like as long as the outdoor stuff, but I've been hauling things and stacking them in the bedrooms to prepare for the carpet and flooring to be ripped out in here.
It's not healthy. Especially not here where the humidity is so high. It's a goddam drag to keep clean and it never is clean even then, just the tinier gross stuff smooshed further down into it and the larger gross stuff sucking up into the immortally evil vacuum. I hate vacuum cleaners! OMG! I cannot impart the fullness of it. They belong smashed on the rocks with the TVs.
So we're ripping it right down to the boards that hold me up off terra firma and any mold we find will be nuked with bleach and TSP. Then roofing paper over that and underlayment sheets stapled down. Then the walls and ceiling get whitewashed. Then the floor gets painted. Then the shelves get put up. Then my fire door desktop and the shelves get painted.
Then the shit in the bedrooms slowly gets sorted between dumpster and being cleaned and placed back in the front room, or their new homes. Then handyman upgrades my disintegrating planters and raises the main flower bed. If the tool shed roof is too far gone, we're going to give it a greenhouse roof... that is if the shed itself will hold up long enough to warrant it.
Don't ask me how I'm paying him. I don't know either. At least he knows that. Seems fairly unconcerned about the speed of payment. He must have indian blood in him.
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The wind just whipped up like crazy about ten minutes ago. Keeps coming in little whistling gusts. Maybe this means business. Can't ever tell anymore.
always and any time....
