On Yahoo! "News" earlier today, there was an article on a possible link between impulsiveness and procrastination. What I want to know is, how did they find me?
FOUR(4). That's the number of (jokingly) accusatory emails I received from random people who don't live in Texas. They all wanted to know what I did to the poor birds down here. Kind of funny how they all each thought they were funny. It's a prime example of an inverse relationship with humor: The first email was rather funny, but a second person with the same joke is less funny...and it's a downward spiral from there as the number increases. Plus today on the South 1st bridge I got dive-bombed by what appeared to be 700 or so birds. No joke. I tried to take a picture to prove my innocence, but the light turned green.
THREE (3). The number of times Justin has tried to contact me in the last two days. In my first answer, told him that I refused to give him my number, and then I didn't respond to his other "I'm single now" email. The last one asked me to go run around with him, "honky-tonkin'." I started to write back with a sentence that said "Ummm--don't see that happening," but I don't want to be mean. I just want to be left alone. I wonder if he thinks from my Myspace profile since it says "single", that I'm waiting for him or something. God, but I hope not.
THIRTY-TWO(32). The number of items I had on my list for all the things to take care of this week. Started the list (of tasks both big and small) on Sunday evening.
FOURTEEN (14). The number of items I have left to complete. This is wonderful news. Can I do anything? Just maybe, I can....
My room is clean, so that means I'm now free to mess it up again with all manner of projects. Which I plan to do shortly.
My desk is cleaned off save for the dozen of books currently being read, or about to be read. Maybe I should get off the computer and go read one? Mayhap.
My (ex?)stepmother sent me a check for $25.00 today for a small portion Jonny Pop's quarterly check from Weber. My plan is to send it back to her with a polite paragraph or two, thanking her. I refuse to get into the myriad of complex emotions that merely interacting with her creates. I'm going to simply say that I think she needs the money more than I do right now, and write about some unrelated, cheerful stuff. She won't know my true thoughts on the disjointed, assumptive, pseudo-factual, and "mired in the bitter past" words of her enclosed letter...that they made me tired, frustrated, helpless, and sad. I'm going to be sweet to her and still get my point across, because to do or imply anything else would just be hurtful. I *kind of* want to tell her never to write me a check again, but that would sound much more condescending or indignant than I mean it to sound. I'll also send her a copy of my demo.
So, then...David Beckham is joining L.A. Galaxy. Since my little "hooligan" days, soccer is the only sport which I semi-follow. I saw L.A. Galaxy play many a time back when MLS started in 1996 and I went to every Kansas City Wiz game. Truly sad, the state of American soccer. It's always been a bit of a bummer to me that major-league soccer had to completely start over from scratch in this country. That's what they get for paying more attention to Joe Namath (and, increasingly, WWF and UFC stars). Of course MLS is going to be a joke after all those years. I'd like to see them play Chelsea or Juventus. Could mean the end of American major-league soccer as we know it. Anyhow, the stuff I read today interested me. Beckham and his wee Spice-wife are the perfect "Hollywood-style" additions for a deal of this sort. Guess who's a goin' to be in picktchahs? Little Vicki, that's who. But at the same time, I'm sort of hoping his addition will lend some credibility to the U.S. soccer league. He has to know how much they suck...there's no question. He's taking a very advantageous step--basically getting into a league that he could conceivably end up running someday. Plus Little Vicki can be in picktchahs.
I'm ready to relax. I think it's reading time now.
This weekend I hope to see: Laura--she's back from Chicago and I miss her. Steve--because I almost always want to see him.
That's about it.
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