I think though, and I'm not just making excuses, that the damn keyboard doesn't help. I don't know if my fingers are feeble weak or if the keys really do stick, so today, when the technician delivers more RAM (and does anyone else feel dirrrty, mrrreow, when they say they're getting more RAM? I feel like I should be bent over the bonnet of my car when he gets here), he's also going to bring a selection of keyboards for me to try. Chances are I'll still be crappadoodle at typing, in which case, I may throw myself off a cliff. I swear though, with my PC's succession of different keyboards, not one of them had me feeling as intimidated by the idea of streaming my consciousness all over the place as this bitch here does.
That's not to say that finding the time to write the several small thoughts I have each day is a picnic though. It's not that there isn't a lot of vacant time in my day, it's that it's not in any substantial blocks because, apart from Daniel chipping away at the minutes in the day, I lied about that streaming my consciousness thing. I'm edit crazy, which is stupid because if I was like this in the days of pen and paper, I'd have torn up a forest worth of trees before I finished the e-mail equivilant of something like "great, see you at 5". and fyi: I edited that last sentence roughly seven times. In those olden days, I used to rip through letters and essays like no body's business. Once a word was written, there was no looking back. I'd rather a less than perfect sentence got read than rewrite the whole damn lot again back then, so while the computer age certainly rocks, its delete button can kiss my overworked editorial arse.
You know, I hadn't intended to reference that stupid perfectionsist streak again, but I think I just explained my infatuation with Mr Delete. (and I only edited that sentence once. Go me)
The irony at this very minute is that The D has been asleep long enough for me to sit here and blabber enough to entertain myself at least, but the computer tech guy is due any minute.
He doesn't usually nap at mid afternoon-o-clock, (Daniel, not the tech guy, though who knows what the techies do after lunch at their Apple store?) but today, after his noontime nap, he had a feed, did a gigantic poo (which had to be exhausting as dude lost almost half his body weight), spent enough time in the bath to get shrivelled and raisin like, and while there, practiced his personal rendition of a Roman statue by peeing on himself, twice, and also actually, really and truly held his bathtime ducks for the first time ever (*mexican wave*) and put them in his mouth for a chew (go deebs!), had some time on the floor looking alluring in a bath towel and little else, and then peed on himself while watching a paused DVD on the TV screen. He wasn't meant to be frying his little brain cells watching television, hence my use of the pause button, but the super expensive and interactive Lamaze educational toy obviously isn't as educational and attractive as a static view of Doc Martin's face.
Moving right along, Tim the techie, who was the epitome of geek, in a totally and coolly cute way, has just left and this mac is ripping along with 768MB of RAM, (hooYAH!) and my new keyboard is rocking da house. It's much like that of a laptop, and its geography is different, so I keep missing the spacebar. Damn. Meanwhile, my old keyboard, if one was to hold it upside down and shake it, could proabably feed several small nations if the foodstuffs inside weren't dating anywhere from today's to two years ago, eww, and The Daniel is still asleep which, what the fuck?
Just so we're clear, when I say Tim the techie is cute, I'm not talking lustfully, mostly because please be referring to the 'geekie' part of his description, which while geekie can be quite a lurve magnet quality, it ain't when it's applied to a twelve year old. Okay, so he wasn't twelve, but to my aging self, he may as well have been. Anyway, I have no idea what this thing called 'libido' is anymore anyway, so techboy could have been Lust In A Bucket, and I'd be all, eh. Good thing I'm not married, huh? Or involved in any way shape or form, as being single and spending Saturdays nights with a dwarf who poops his pants sure as shizzle means I won't be getting any for quite some time, so thank fuck I don't want it any.
The comments section can be used for those of you who wish to thank me for sharing.
I'm reminded though, that Mother Nature can kiss my big ol' barge arse. What is it about childbirth and being hit by the ugly stick? My God. Three months after I whelped that puppy, and I've gained four kilos and my hair is falling out. Those in the know are aware that my stupid hair has been having a cow for four years now, so it's not like I've got a lot to lose. That would be reassuring if I had a lot to gain, like if I'd gambled ten bucks on the chance I could win a hundred, but this is my hair and I'm sure as shit no Natalie Portman. And I'm old. Gack.
Speaking of old and ugly, (and aren't I the segue queen today?) Stef called. He'd sent me a text message on Saturday night which, as the message alert system on my phone causes me to shitteth my pants if it's switched on, didn't get read 'til the next day, when I declined to reply to him because I went over all control freak. He was all about he's ready to talk now, so I met his "I'm ready" and raised him a big old ignore, HA! So come Monday night, he called. I answered it because this is about Daniel's life, not my power trips or my pride...and I'm gonna have to leave it there folks, for the lad in question has just woken up.