in my room

If you want to know what I've been thinking, well, it's strange because I can't really honestly say what I feel or think right now, in any exact way. The last couple of weeks have been extremely internal.

(on the tv - there's a fat brunette with glasses, in the middle of the forest, who just sat down to meditate. She's wearing trackpants in pale pink. She's the type of woman you see in the corner of libraries on a Wednesday afternoon, pouring over back issues of Psychology magazine. There's always a sweetly rotten smell about her, as if the water never completely dries. She's breathing deeply, and trying to get into a comfortable buddha position, but it seems hard, to be completely still and one with the ravine, when you're asthmatic. Suddenly, she bounces up, and says "I needed that," and goes running off into the woods.)

I remember a long time ago, when I was child, spending practically a whole summer in my bed.

What did I do? I think that most of the time was spent playing with my stuffed animals. There were 6 of them, all of which I shared with my sister, though common property ended with the white stuffed cat. I made up stories for them, where they were fabulously rich and talented, but also each with a comic-like weakness. One could run around the world 30 times in one second but was very stupid. Another had an enormous brain, very hard head, and legs that broke. A Dull-tective, a Da Catty. Child-like stuff. Repetitive.

The panda was special. He had very stupid looking eyes and when you raised your index finger, he intrigued himself into poking his eye out. Am I in that stage right now? Intriguing myself into poking my eyes out?

When the outside is cold, the sun seems to set too early, and the struggle against possible social boredom seems hopeless, the bed becomes the best haven. Piles of books against the blackness. Comics, jokes, fantasies, short-stories, pot-boilers and polar-noirs, stack them in the painted white corner and one digs into them, one after the other, like hot boiled sausages waiting to smothered with mustard.

But, I know that this doesn't interest the average blog-reader. You don't really care what it is that's pickling in my head right now. You want a story with a witty comment, or something you can relate to and then comment on. A debate! Sorry...I just wanted to tell you, to record it now, I'm at home, on my computer, in my bed, and everything is sweet jim fine and dandy.