Drive-by update

(1) I hurt. Stuffy head and sore back and aching jaw (strictly a swollen lymph node, and through pure coincidence, hurting right about where the swelling on Angel's jaw is. I thought I was being stalked by Psycho and Somatic until I figured *that* one out). This is not one of those twenty-four hour colds, more's the pity.

(2) Two offices cleared out since Thursday last, and guess where all the loose files went? Right. My office. I've got two or three feet of paperwork stacked around the office in assorted locations, and I only wish I was exaggerating. Also, the other admin has not been in since Tuesday Monday. Wednesday Tuesday there were phone calls explaining that her father had had a stroke. Haven't heard from her since. I fear the worst, and I am very very sorry for her, but at the same time, I would like to *know*, you know? I'd have called her temp agency for a replacement already, except there is no way in *hell* I have time to train anybody.

(3) Angel is eating. She is also mostly refusing to let me pet her, and has taken to chirrupping in wild defiance as she dives under the bed when I approach. She came and curled up on my chest last night, though. In defiance of her probable opinion of me at the moment, I choose to see this as affectionate. (Are you my adorable breath-stealing kitty? You are!)

(4) The Coil, from BPAL, is kind of sweet and green. Not really capable of picking up much more than that right now. Probably wouldn't have tried it today, except that BPAL is a small pick-me-up and it's such a pretty colour.

(5) There is no five.

(6) There must, however, be a six, or else the lack of five is obvious and irrelevant. Fortunately, I've been meaning to toss up a link to thingswithwings thoughts on season 29 of Doctor Who[1], and its themes and echoes, and T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men".

(7) So many damn typos...
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[1] Sometimes called Season Three. Weird.

My taste is in my mouth.

I just want to go home and watch Frankenhooker. I got all the way through the bits before the opening credits last night before I fell over, which admittedly were longer-than-usual bits.

Can I just say that if you're a self-appointed bio-electric technician, maybe you should, you know, turn your efforts towards resurrecting someone *other* than your undoubtedly very sweet but rather brainless fiancée? You know, maybe find someone who *doesn't* stand in front of the remote-controlled power lawnmower you built your future father-in-law and ignore your "Honey, don't stand in front of it" comments as she turns it on, and shows how to control the speed, and presses the button that makes it go straight forward?

...remembering the unabashedly B-grade (B-grade? L-grade) nature of the plot while assorted covers of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" are playing is causing mild cognitive dissonance, here.

Because occasionally poetry helps with all things.

PASSER MORTUUS EST

Death devours all lovely things:
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness, — presently
Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation;
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Just because it perished?

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

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For the sake of explicit clarity; no, I am not having relationship issues. Everybody relax.