This was the kind of week which lent itself to "two hours sleeping, two hours up watching cable", a Morpheus-meets-Jon-Stewart sleep that ends each morning politely at five, when episodes from the series Angel (always the ones from the wrong season or featuring the extraneous-teen-son-who-proved-quite-bor
I mailed out numerous CDs. I had someone use a charming freeway metaphor to express to me what wrong turns a remix I created took. I had someone else ask to use two other remixes in a film. We're going to see my father this weekend, and I am excited about the prospect. I daydream about fishing in the Red River. I imagine leading a beetle spin beside still waters, and restoring my soul, except that turn of phrase feels alarmingly sacriligious and not tantalizingly witty, so I'll no doubt remember it at five in the morning.
I'm eager to enjoy another day of work, another trip home, another Sunday afternoon at home, and then another week of work. It's the kind of existence that Sam Drucker no doubt would treasure, although Arnold Ziffel would know better than to wallow in it.
