hydroxyl
the five bodily humours?
They ought to be. The bathtub has become the cat's primary source of water, which leads to cat-hair drain clogs, which I smote. Amazing stuff, that Drano gel—reminds me of the liner notes to Sonic Youth's Confusion is Sex—"The performance is absolutely unstable, three minutes of panic, and it still bubbles like a witches' cauldron; it'll dissolve anything."
Summer weather. We are happy and lethargic, surrounded by light. I meant to say something about the Bloomsday festivities a couple days back; obviously the holiday is inherently silly and nerdy, but the readings made me so happy. They made me want to write something good, which is certainly not a feeling I have all the time. Often you just keep pushing the wheelbarrow up the hill because you have to, because your superego will whip you with a birch switch if you don't.
I should also pause to note the improbably delicious curry served by the pub: green apples and raisins and other sweet things simmered in mild spices and poured over French fries. Oh my Lord it was good. Whoever invented it deserves an equestrian statue in the public park.
