Sunday, August 11, 2002
There's a storm brewing.
You can feel it. The air is heavy. It's been warm and humid most of the day, and the wind is picking up. It's getting dark, much darker than usual at this time of the night and year. The anticipation is killing me.
Except not really, 'cause I'm sitting inside, safe and sound from the elements. What, you think I'd risk getting hit by lightning, or worse, get wet? Nah-ah. Ragnar don't play dat.
(It actually started raining the second I wrote that. Spoo-kee. My window's wide open, because I'm waiting for someone to move their car. Parking-spaces are as hard to come by in my street as prostitutes are in the Vatican. That's really, really hard, you know. Although I'm only guessing with that "prostitutes" bit. You never know what those crazy Cardinals get up to on the weekends. Anyways, so my car is now parked in a spot that I have to vacate before 8 AM tomorrow morning - not very convenient. I want a spot where I can be parked all week long. That's what I'm waiting for. Uh-huh.)
Listening to Norah Jones. Again. I really do love that CD. Once in a while, you pick something out in the record-store by pure chance (okay, my brother told me he'd heard it was good - I'll give him that), and you get lucky. I buy a lot of CDs, and some of them I only listen to once. This one's perfect background music for a rainy Sunday night. It's sweet; it really is. The cat seems to think so, too. She's sprawled on top of the couch, chillin':
Can't just somebody move their car, already? Jeez. People act as though they live here...which they probably do. But still.
You can feel it. The air is heavy. It's been warm and humid most of the day, and the wind is picking up. It's getting dark, much darker than usual at this time of the night and year. The anticipation is killing me.
Except not really, 'cause I'm sitting inside, safe and sound from the elements. What, you think I'd risk getting hit by lightning, or worse, get wet? Nah-ah. Ragnar don't play dat.
(It actually started raining the second I wrote that. Spoo-kee. My window's wide open, because I'm waiting for someone to move their car. Parking-spaces are as hard to come by in my street as prostitutes are in the Vatican. That's really, really hard, you know. Although I'm only guessing with that "prostitutes" bit. You never know what those crazy Cardinals get up to on the weekends. Anyways, so my car is now parked in a spot that I have to vacate before 8 AM tomorrow morning - not very convenient. I want a spot where I can be parked all week long. That's what I'm waiting for. Uh-huh.)
Listening to Norah Jones. Again. I really do love that CD. Once in a while, you pick something out in the record-store by pure chance (okay, my brother told me he'd heard it was good - I'll give him that), and you get lucky. I buy a lot of CDs, and some of them I only listen to once. This one's perfect background music for a rainy Sunday night. It's sweet; it really is. The cat seems to think so, too. She's sprawled on top of the couch, chillin':
Can't just somebody move their car, already? Jeez. People act as though they live here...which they probably do. But still.
