Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Signs of the slow meltdown into crazy
I developed a disturbing habit tonight. I began to talk to the tv. Only to the good shows, like NCIS and House, and it's not like they talk back. Either way, I found myself saying things like "House you. Are. SO. Mean!" and "Ha! Way to go Sean from Felicity slash Alias, he so deserved that knee to the balls!" While this might have been behavior exhibited previously (watch how I cleverly turn this into a "woe is me" pity party), it was always with others in the room where it could be adroitly hidden under the guise that I was talking to the real people. Now... not so much.
I registered for a ceramics class in the local arts school (or so they call themselves). I expect to be very proud of some truly horrible vases. If you are very lucky, perhaps you will receive one for your birthday, or Christmas. You will, of course, be obligated to profess your love for it no matter what the glaze - even purple polka dots, boys.
There is inexplicably the smell of licorice in my kitchen. I hate licorice. And anise. And fennel, and caraway, and anything else that reminds me of licorice. It is a disgusting flavor and a disturbing smell and I abhor it. I will not buy it and I will not tolerate it in my presence (if I can help it). But Somehow, Someway, it has ferreted its evil way into my Kitchen and I cannot figure out how, but it is war.
And, no. This post has nothing to do with goats. In case you didn't notice.