dholokov

So I have to admit I have, like, nothing to say.

I went to the laundromat this morning and it was so busy that I had to do my whites and darks in the same load. On hot. the bravery of my cavalier attitude towards the purity of my clothing colour is matched only by the sincerity of my hopes that I get my dryer fixed and hooked up soon.

Am reading Peter Pan. I don't think J.M. Barrie liked either women or children.
And Joyce Carol Oates has a new book. That's like three in a year and a half. Does that woman ever have an unpublished thought?

An old acquaintance of mine sings jazz on Sundays at a local bar. I stopped by tonight to see her show because I hadn't in a long time. She is very talented but that's what comes of four years at U of T's faculty of music. They ended their second set with a jazz version of Dig for Fire. The funniest part, though, was when she said 'excuse me, could I get a little more me on the monitor, please?', and her band called out, in unison, "it's always about you, isn't it?"