I don’t know…typing?

I just wrote an entry over at Prosebox, but I still felt like typing something here because it still holds a place in my cold, stone, heart.  Well, my heart’s not really cold or made of stone, I’m a lovey dovey whatsit.

I’ve got such a brilliant life even though I’m saddled with the effects of having my skull dug into too many times for me to remember.  My skull is all bumpy and misshapen-ish because of the efforts to keep me alive, and my deficits are real but I was taught how to do my best to work around them.  I’ve got pretty fingernails (I gave Sabrina permission to do whatever she felt like and she just asked me for some colors to use so I said black with a sort of neon green).  Four of them (the index and ring fingers on each hand) have a shiny black coat with some neon green and white splatter-ish-ness on them, and the rest of the fingers are a matte black.  They’re cool and the whole experience is ridiculously relaxing and makes me feel awesome.

I also spoke to Shannon a bunch today.  It’s weird-but-not-weird because I’m learning to just enjoy the fact that I have a person like her to talk to as often as we have been and it’s just always so lovely and doesn’t have to be anything specific.  Her roommates (she share-rents a house with two dudes, one of whom is constantly playing a video game where he’s talking to other players over the internet) have been getting on her nerves, so she’s been taking her dog, Gus, for lots of walks and rides in the car (which Gus loooooves).  She’ll call me whilst on those walks and on the phone that’s built right into her car and just let me sort of be there with her in that fashion.

It’s a nice way to break up my day here in this apartment.

Bob Ross doesn’t bobble his head at night time, he just sort of stares at me expectantly while holding his painting.  I’m sure he knows I like it, I told him as much, but he’s always got that smile that seems to say, “Do you like my happy, little trees?”

Yes, Bob, I love them.