observations

• I made a pair of earrings for a friend's birthday a week or two ago. They turned out perfectly, exactly what I wanted. ...I mean, exactly what I wanted. I wanted to keep them. It was really, really hard to wrap them up and give them away. It's sort of funny/hard to admit that while I watched her open them, I sort of hoped that she wouldn't like them and would give them back. Ridiculous, I know. And probably a good sign, eh, that after such a long layoff, I've still got the knack to turn out something nice. And in case it's unclear: she liked them. Dang it.
• When I moved into this apartment, I was the youngest one in the building by five or ten years. Looking back on it, that's probably why the conditions for acceptance of my application—which were significant, e.g. references that really were called and asked serious questions about my conduct and character—seemed so strict. My landlords probably thought they were taking a chance on me. Over the intervening years, they've come to realize, much like my parents did, that although I'm clearly abnormal and do things in my own odd way, I'm also basically harmless and am pretty much unlikely to bring them to grief. Less likely, at least, than some of the others. Example: the guys across the hall. Employees of the landlords (in their other reality). Frequent partiers. Magnets to which all manner of stomping, door-slamming, sitting-in-parking-lots-playing-radios-endlessly asshat friends are drawn. Example: the gaggle currently inhabiting the western lot, in front of the other building (conveniently also below my office window). Four adults, two children, one beanbag toss game, one domestic vehicle (mid-1990s) with radio blaring R-ford classic rock station. Yeah, today it came close to 90° for the first time this season; it's just plain nice out. But seriously, you're hanging out, playing games in a parking lot.
  
• Crazy dreams lately. My former spouse made an appearance last night; we were arguing about silverware and the pets (something that we never, ever did). The drummer with whom I stayed up all night drinking root beer and indulging in our mutual love of Rush has popped in a couple of times lately, too. I won't even bother telling the one that woke me up the other morning; it was too strange to be believed.
• Xenophobia is not sexy. It's not cool, not intelligent, not reasonable. It's nothing but a reflection of the harshness of your soul. The moment you reveal it, I've turned away from you in a way that can't be changed. Cranky as I am, the only thing that I really cannot tolerate is intolerance.
• I'm tempted to share the adventurous whereabouts of the Mumbler and his equally fascinating young lady-friend. They are a nearly endless source of wonder/amusement/concern/chagrin/humor for me. I doubt that anyone would believe the stories I would tell, though, so I'll just keep 'em to myself. Trust me on one thing: in his own mind he's the...dopest trick.
• I think I'd sell my soul for a good piece of apple pie. If I had the slightest energy, I'd just make one for myself. That seems unlikely. I suppose dinner wouldn't be inappropriate at this point. Wish I had a replicator.
• Oooooooh - I almost forgot: I've set the MFing voicemail on my phone. I expect everyone who's got that number to call it posthaste, just to see what sort of deviousness I've dealt.