back with a whimper not a bang

Putting off writing Hi-you-don't-know-me-but emails for this fucking grant has led me first to change my settings on Friendster to re-enable my stalking (mmm mmm, secret Friendster boyfriend Phillippe, how I've missed you when I couldn't view your profile because then you'd see mine) and now to blog. Pa. The. Tic.

Ah, well.

What've I got? Not much except an empty 2.5 gallon fishtank and a long neck High Life, and I don't want to fucking write these fucking emails! Grrrr.

At some point in the past few days (sleep-wake-write emails-revise draft-sling hash-sleep-wake-write-eat-file bills-sleep-wake-revise-eat, ad nauseam) I had the somewhat inappropriate thought that it's not out of the realm of possibility that I could in the distant mists of the future, birth a boy child, and that, as his mother, I would be free to name him, oh, Gerrard Rafael Last Name, or Rafael Gerrard Last Name, and not a soul except SA would know why, and this thought (of the name, not of the hours of gutwrenching labor required to bring said moneypit into the world, nor of the 21 subsequent years of sleepless nights) filled me with far, far too much joy. Ahh.

Slurp, slurp, blog, blog, now I'm tired and it's not as if I can just not write these before going to sleep and it's not as if I don't have almost every hour booked tomorrow. Hrmph. Grrrrr (note the first 2 letters...)