I am not domestic. I am a luxury, and in that sense, necessary

[sovay]

So for the second night in a row I did not fall asleep until well after sunup and then I was out of commission far too late into the afternoon while still not getting much real sleep at all. When I finally got up, Autolycus had thrown up twice on the floor.

But then I got out of the house. And I met up with rushthatspeaks. And the entire staff of the T-Mobile store in Central Square thought Fox was adorable and I bought a yuzu cream croissant and durian mochi from H-Mart and we picked up gaudior from work and my biography of Sessue Hayakawa had come in at Porter Square Books and we made shells and cheese for dinner and Rush-That-Speaks showed me David Ehrlich's 25 best films of 2016 and it was in general a really nice day.

And then I got home and the upstairs neighbors are throwing a literally screaming party and their weed has filled the stairwell and smells like Satan's underarm and Autolycus is still throwing up and I just found out that John Hurt has died.

I'd like to take this evening again from about ten o'clock, thank you.

[edit] All right, as of eleven-thirty, the literally screaming party has decamped for parts unknown (although their weed remains) and Autolycus is no longer actively throwing up. But John Hurt is still dead and I'm not all right with that.

Comments

[juliansinger.livejournal.com]

I'm not all right with that.

Bloody well not at all.

(I'm glad the party departed, too.)

[sovay]

Bloody well not at all.

This was especially not the day.

(I'm glad the party departed, too.)

(Thank you. The neighbors returned around one-thirty and were noisy coming up the stairs with some other people and I almost blew a fuse, but they have quieted back down by now. Which is good, because I want to sleep tonight, not get arrested for suddenly feeling the inspiration to warm up and rehearse, I don't know, the Queen of the Night's second aria out on the second-floor landing.)