I am sick. I need to lie around and get well but its so boring I can hardly bring myself to do it. I might go buy somethings to sew a laptop bag today.
I'm lonely now that Dave's gone. I really feel like a visitor now, whereas before I felt home. Maybe some of that is that I'm sick and spending most of my time in my house. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen, that everything is just going to stay the same, becoming stagnant until this thing happens. But I'm not sure what it is. I'm just assuming I'll know it when it happens. And then things will move along like they ought to and I won't feel like everything around me is rotting slowly with time.
I had a dream that I was stealing lots of individual slices of cake from a bed and breakfast...and I was being very sneaky and taking one or two at a time and running out to a car and setting them on the front seat. Then I woke up with a crick in my neck.
I'm lonely now that Dave's gone. I really feel like a visitor now, whereas before I felt home. Maybe some of that is that I'm sick and spending most of my time in my house. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen, that everything is just going to stay the same, becoming stagnant until this thing happens. But I'm not sure what it is. I'm just assuming I'll know it when it happens. And then things will move along like they ought to and I won't feel like everything around me is rotting slowly with time.
I had a dream that I was stealing lots of individual slices of cake from a bed and breakfast...and I was being very sneaky and taking one or two at a time and running out to a car and setting them on the front seat. Then I woke up with a crick in my neck.
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"What's that?" I asked, being rather dense.
"I said 'curious'"
"Oh, I thought that's what you said," I said, Then, in the interest of carrying the narrrative forward, I added, " & what exactly is it that you find curious?"
"Dr. Watson," he said, warming to the task at hand of explaining the obvious to me, "Do you like cake?"
"What do you mean CAKE--why are you you blathering about CAKE--good GOD, man, a Viscount has been MURDERED--& you ask me about CAKE. With all due respect, my good Mister Holmes, what has CAKE to do with the matter at hand--I mean--my God!--a Viscount lies prostrate in his congealing blood, a fragment of paper in his stiffening hand, a smudge of--if I'm not mistaken--a variety of India Ink that is only available at 345 Charrington & Wixley & dribbles of candlewax all over the bloody place & you ask me about CAKE?"
"Are you quite finished, Dr. Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes, in that maddeningly calm way that he has.
I blustered a bit further--the Viscount had had a full head of hair at the dinner preceeding, yet he was now bald as an egg--Where was his hairpiece??--& he appeared to be shedding a bit of blood from between the shoulderblades, despite his apparent case of death being bludgeoning by a blood-stained staue of Plato near the body, which was smudged with a variety of hair-oil only sold by a Chinese Merchant we have had previous dealings with in Kensington.
"But my dear Watson, " inturrupted Holmes, "Have you not noticed the cake?"
"Well, I was a bit more concerned about the way that the soot from the fireplace seems to lay in a way contrary to the way it should were the window...."
"Somebody'd been bloody NICKING SLICES, Watson."
"Perhaps, but...."
"To the PARKING LOT, Watson!"
"But..the Viscount...." I said, rather weakly.
"But Watson...it was my FAVORITE KIND OF CAKE,"
"Probably...teeenagers...um, gang members...." I said lamely, "Peace with Prussia kinda depends on us settling this matter...."
"Bugger Prussia! Follow the cake! The Cake!" he said.
It was then that I knew he was quite mad.
He's currently resting comfortably, thank you for asking.