May 31, 2009
I just got the bill to renew my motorcycle insurance. My last bill was $140. This one is $97. Nothing about my coverage has changed, so I assume that the decrease is due solely to the fact that I’ve managed to not kill myself in the last year.
A new chum is accident-prone; Luna is that sort of place. They say if a new chum lives a year, he’ll live forever. But nobody sells him insurance first year.
–Robert Heinlen. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
May 28, 2009
At the top of Zappos.com, just underneath the search bar, is a list of their most popular searches.
The number one search term is “shoes”.
May 26, 2009
I do not like my mouth guard. It is a bulky rubber thing that is supposed to keep me from grinding my teeth slowly but relentlessly into powder during the night, but what it mostly does is prevent me from falling asleep. I keep it right next to my bed, so that I can put it in just right before I think I’m going to drift off. Usually I miss it, but sometimes I remember.
And I am instantly wide awake. Transfixed. That part of my brain that—when I was twelve—kept my tongue on a strict regimen of wiggling that loose tooth back and forth, over and over, even after the dull salty flavor of blood indicated that maybe maybe I should give it a rest, that part of my brain has lain dormant for years, just waiting for something this interesting to happen inside my mouth again. And so my tongue is over here along the underside of the guard, probing for weaknesses, and then it is running its way along the smooth part on one side, and then the other. Sometimes, it decides to block the air holes in the mouth guard, and the part of my brain that’s supposed to remember to breathe through my nose is otherwise engaged and chhckk hac cough cough, and eventually, after lying here for what seems like hours I take the damned thing out again and put it on the bedside table and I can finally get some sleep.
Then, in the morning, my jaw hurts.
I had thought that I was making some real inroads with the cat. Recently, she has taken to sleeping alongside me, about in line with my head and just far enough away that I can reach out my hand and rest it against her softly rhythmic side as I’m going to sleep, which is very comforting in a “real life stuffed bear” sort of a way, and is only slightly diminished by the times that—in the middle of the night—she starts doing that kneading motion that cats do to indicate that they really like you, except for this bit of skin right here, and I have that dream where I’m being tortured by some nefarious organization of hooded individuals who are plunging ornately bejeweled curved daggers into the back of my hand, between the finger tendons, until I finally awaken and there are actual curved daggers being driven into the back of my hand!
But last night I found her blanket, and put it back on the end of the bed, which is of course where she slept. She doesn’t love me any more. I mean, sure, she loves me a little, but this is her blanket we’re talking about. I can’t really compete. I don’t smell right.
Three day weekend: not long enough.