strange

Last night the drill officially died. Erik had taken it apart so many times. Something deep inside it was wrong. A loose connection he couldn't reach. Why does this sound so profoundly metaphorical? I am only talking about the drill!!!!

So we went to OSH and bought a new one--how does that fit into my extended metaphor, smarty? It was on sale. It works wonderfully, or did once Erik conquored all the problems that made the holes crooked.

I've been binding those 120 copies of issue 36. And last night I was listening to strange They Might Be Giants songs on Dial A Song and looking at scary photos of a condemned mental hospital online. And ate eggplant dip on crackers.

This morning Erik had insomnia and woke me up early and got up to sit. Kitty cried for attention for a while then got over it. He left for work a bit late. The kettle water boiled while he was in the shower. I was trying to make his sandwiches, and he kept getting in my way. This kitchen's too small for the both of us. I put some egplantdip in his sandwiches, and I think he will be pleased. "I'm not pleased with you," I told him this morning. It was for waking me up. But I do feel sorry for him with insomnia worries.

"Can you think of something to be pleased with me for? Like drilling the holes for your zine?"

"Yes, I'm pleased with you for that," I said, half-sleeping. I just hate waking up.