#414

Uh-oh! Number four one four! Kind of cool-looking. Yeah.

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Did so much stuff yesterday, dear reader. Too many things. My body is sore and my mind mainly eager to simply settle into itself and read books.

Dug a little firepit. Raked a bunch, mowed, whacked at tussocks with a tool I don't know the name of but which functions as a scythe and chopper by looking a little like a crooked golf putter with a dull serrated blade instead of a club end.

Also a bunch of emotional and psychic labor. All of it was good, a good day. Then I did not sleep well. Ho-hum.

*

Here's a dope thing: the way I've rearranged my office, the desk, still set up so I can use my laptop standing, is closer to the window, and I can type without pants on. Well, I guess I always could. But now the breeze is particularly refreshing, and it feels less likely that someone could somehow work it so they could achieve a view of my private splendor. 

Sure, I'm about 99.7% certain no one at street level or at any second-story window could personally get the angle to snap a juicy blackmail pic or the fuel for a deepfake--but we live at the dawn of the drone age, already beset by silent, hovering probe droids equipped with cameras exponentially superior to the human eye and getting better all the time.

But yeah, man. Picture me standing here, buckass naked, typing delightedly like Percy Aldridge Grainger writing shitty pastorals. This detail about him is apocryphal, but compelling and relatable. That was one weird dude.

I would also like to dress as an improvised jester at times.

My old high school band directors were into him for some reason--the reason basically has to be that they were freaks. 

One could tell when the main director's wife was on her period because like clockwork, once a month for about a week, he would become unbearable. He could be an asshole any time, but that shit hit different. The man's libido was clearly a clockwork-type mechanism which did not handle service interruptions well. If you fucked up in front of him when the times were lean, it could be much more unpleasant than any teenager should have to tolerate. The day after he could get laid again, he was a man wreathed in smiles and good humor. Shit was uncanny. My theory was largely rejected by my peers, but I remain compelled by the evidence of my observations.

Certain that he and his assistant director (at the time) had traveled to Grainger's crazy-ass museum and oohed and ahhed over the BDSM gear the man handcrafted. Gotta admit, incorporating a conductor's baton into a homemade riding crop is DIY move that hefts panache.

Guess ole Percy fucked his mom? Well, it's no less than I expect from anyone who believes in Nordic superiority. His compositions are also not good to my way of thinking, and I hated playing them. 

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ANYWAY today is not a day I can devote to quietude and literature. Finally offered a job, and I have to go hand in paperwork to make sure I get it. It is seasonal part-time work for which I will make just one dollar more than half of what I used to. But it's something, and right now, the way things have been, it feels like a miracle. I will endeavor to be kept on as a permanent hire, and seek promotion.

Gotta get ready immediately, in fact. Then, a laundry list of duties follows in short order. Off I go.

Hope you liked Percy Aldridge Grainger Day here on Factually Pointless. That was fucking weird.

--JL

p.s. I don't mean to kinkshame the BDSM community here. Or anyone whose lives have been affected by incest. It's not like anyone yelled at me, but I do spend some time thinking about the things I say after the fact, and I realize that trying to be funny comes at somewhat of a price in damn near every instance.