Connect the Dots (if you care, I'm too tired/bored, honestly); Stream of Conscious

The weird door-to-door guy was back,
creepy man with tight, burnt little
chocolate chip cookies
on a greasy paper plate. How? I guess
real cookies nned a greased pan.
I can't remember.
But why, o why, did I lie and thank him for the first plate?

I'm doomed for more, that's for sure.

Why must exercise punish me?
I tried a "new" rev today and pulled a muscle--
under the left set of my ribs. It hurts.
Makes me uncomfortable.
But more curiously, I find myself avoiding bodily uncomforts
more than ever before . . .
in all, ehem, aspects of life, so to speak.
And burnt little blobs of cookie dough
make me highly uncomfortable.

Emotions, like cookie dough, are vibrant and explosive in adolesence,
too bad its poetry sucks. Adolecent poetry, not cookie dough.
Utterly sucky. Cliches and vague universals--
wait--
pretty much like my current blogging! Is there a connection?
Perhaps young people always feel watched,
so that they must speak in cryptic codes?
A friend's 12-year-old asked me today
how old I would guess someone was if she
looked exactly like me and we passed eachother in a mall.
I said 16.
She laughed.
Then I secretly asked myself how old I really feel--
the answer surprised me.
My current age minus a rather tramatic experience 7 years ago.
Curious.
My mum-in-law is working her way into a "home" as fast as possible;
she is a relativally healthy 60-year-old who drives me insane.

And listen, why does Yahoo! sport the headline:
what?! it's already gone? unbelievable? anyway,
the headline pointed out that Clinton had appointed
the federal judge assigned to the Schiavo case to the bench--
someone at Yahoo! must have already sensed my Q.
One up.
Also CNN:
"Gap dumps 'Sex in the City' Star"
Is the word "dumps" appropriate? Why not let Jessica Speak?

Oh Oh! My partner just called from the video store
and _Finding Neverland_ is already out?! Woo-woo!
Did I just promise sexual favors if the movie
finds its way to my DVD player tonight? I have found my escape.

I hear Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade coming from
a viola in one of the back bedrooms; only it doesn't sound arabic at all,
it sounds like an Irish lament and I feel a bit selfish
for hoping she is corageous and bold enough
to play such music at my bed side when I die . . .


Do you ever get the funny feeling that
you are typing just to see yourself type?