04 July, 2009

ok, then

as usual, whenever i reread my older posts i sense a terrifying, dizzying downward slide towards mental decrepitude and, worse, excruciating dullness. why oh why does it seem like the moi of yesteryear was a funnier, wittier, edgier moi? could it be the drinking? could it?

perchance it is my life - the hilarity of my fort mcmurray exile provided ample fodder for the blogosphere. here, now, my quasi-monastic metropolitan existence leaves me with little to write about. 

oh sure, i just about killed my uncle on wednesday, and then spent most of yesterday peeling gigantic chunks of paint off my ceiling, but really, do you need to hear more about my renovations? i know i certainly don't. and my uncle? well, he says he is slightly bruised but very much alive, thank god.

my limbs are still attached to my trunk, though mysterious chartreuse bruises occasionally make an appearance (i blame the endlessly shifting furniture) but that doesn't bother me much, especially in light of my absolute love for chartreuse. and i am sporting two swanky cross-shaped stigmata where my mysterious growths used to live.

so there you have it - every night i read a book, drink one glass of wine, followed shortly by another (or two), every day i scrape/paint/sweep/sand and occasionally go to work. what is there to write about? no boss to engender a murderous rage, no co-workers to feature prominently in blood-soaked fantasies of revenge, not even a town filled with dodge ram driving escaped lobotomy patients. the problem is i live in a little island of sanity in alberta...except of course for that shouting twitching crazy man on the corner tonight. 

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