I know that normally I write you several hours earlier than this, but I had a work thing that was vexing me and making me anxious, so at about 7:30 this morning I got on my work laptop, not literally, and commenced to working.
I just finished the thing I was working on, then ate a salad listlessly in my back yard. Now I’m here typing you with the same level of no list. The work was fun but made me tired. Plus also too additionally, I’ve had a migraine for more than a day, and I’m taking pills for it, but those make me sleepy, which may explain why I’m sans list.
Dear June: Stop playing with the word “listless.”
My salad, the one I just ate with list on the side, had spinach and the chicken I food prepped, which isn’t very good. You know what I need? One of those food thermometers. I think I might overcook things.
Also I need good knives. My knives would make a longshoreman weep like a little bitch.
As I was saying, it had chicken, spinach, half an avocado and that salad dressing I made with oil and $700 white balsamic vinegar that is also dressing my cupboards’ surfaces (see: yesterday’s tragic post), honey and a little salt.
My salad had those things. The longshoreman I threw out there as someone who hardly cries unless he sees dull knives did not have these things.
Why do you read me?
Also, why are we all getting so weird about salt? Do you really taste a difference between sea salt and, you know, salt? Or pepper and, you know, FRESH GROUND pepper?
In other news, not that any of the above counted as “news,” my black kitten is at the shelter. Since Thursday, he’s had the diarrhea, or as they spell it in England, diorreoah, and I took him to the shelter to get checked out on Saturday afternoon. They assured me he was fine, but then he came home and kept chasing waterfalls every time he went to the litter box. Even worse, he’d meow piteously, or mayoww as they spell it in England.
Today’s post is me misspelling words in England. And talking about salad.
So I rushed home from work last night and got the kitten, rushed to the shelter all the way across town, dropped him off with a kiss on his walnut head, and when I called today they said, “We haven’t seen him poop yet,” which, really? So he’s still there and the house seems desperately mature, what with stoic Milhous and always-sleeping Iris and Lily. And white-faced, stiff-hipped Eds.
And me, with my stupid salads.
Tonight I have one of my old movies at the old theater; this time it’s that one silent movie that has that guy hanging off the clock, do you know the one I mean? Anyway, an organist comes to the silent movies and, you know, plays his organ.
Now it seems less mature here.
So I’m looking forward to that, and to getting my foster kitten back. I get to foster kittens till they weigh two pounds, in which time the kittens are ready to be spayded, as they say in England. Seeing as Mr. Blacksmith weighs only a pound and a half, as soon as he’s not shittin’ Niagara Falls, or Niaoguerra Falls, as they spell it in England, I get him back till he gains that half pound. (As soon as he returns, I’m putting him on keto so he loses weight.)