My Kingdom For Keys

I'm absolutely and irrevicobly...irrevacably...irr--screw spell check. I'm tired, darn-it!

So many things have happened in the past couple of weeks: sue died, I went to her funeral, I got lots of early christmas presents, Ben and Laurel visited, I decorated a tree, I broke down a number of times, I rented a car because my other one is getting fixed because IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I TELL YA, and I can't find keys.

It seems terribly metaphysical. Keys equal an entrance to something and it seems as if I am forever getting shut off, slowed down, or tuckered out. And now that I don't have keys that physically exist to physically open a physical door to information in the form of English folders by prior students I'm just feeling a bit metaphored out. I'm drowning in new English folders in the office. I have a pretty good sized fort in here. A bit of a wall, actually. I'm half expecting to see East Berlin behind it if I ever get these blasted things out of here.

I saw Absurd Person Singular last weekend and was incredibly surprised by everything. I, sincerely, did not think it could be pulled off in any sort of fashion. I'm so fantastically wrong.

I'm trying to call Sue from the great beyond. I'm trying to tell her that she needs to help me find those keys. But no help from my dead friend. No help from someone who will never again grace the presence of the office. No help from my former mentor, my second mother. The dead can be so rude sometimes. Of course, the fact that they've gone up and died doesn't bode well to the trustworthiness of their helpfulness. But I thought I'd give it a shot. All I recieved was the sudden urge to water dying plants that Sue always kept alive. I suppose those are the priorities.

I can hardly keep my eyes open. I need a stick of dynomite. I need to bust those doors open and shell out the old and put in the new. I need to replenish stock. I need to update old ideas. I need to know that someone is reading out there. Not because I have an ego (though I do) and think that my writings are anything worth the effort taken to read them (though, obviously they're shakespeare reincarnated through me) but because I'm feeling so very isolated right now. I don't even have the hope of archeologists finding my witty ramblings because computer addresses won't be dug up next to the bones. This blog will be eaten by internet monsters and lost in the ethers of unsaved ims and deleted spam after 7 days.

And so it should be. Because heaven knows if it was possible to read this after more than a thousand years and they based all of past humanity off of what I had written they'd be convinced that everyone was plagued with psychosis and neurosis. Then again, isn't everyone? It's become a bit of the norm to be crazy. Just so long as your craziness lends itself to the social neurosis that everyone else has. It's okay to be crazy as long as you're crazy like everyone else.

currently: very small

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