sock sublimation

My cotton socks are sublimating that sweet smell of decaying garbage. Before I know it they’ll turn into fruit.

I really need to clean this room.

I was reading Cat’s Cradle yesterday, and right as I read the word ‘bartender’ the Yonder Mountain String Band CD I was listening to said ‘bartender’. I’ve never had a coincidence like that happen before, and it was pretty cool.

None of my submissions made it into the April Fool’s Statesmullet. They ran a story that boasted “Construction on Weber music hall halted,” instead of mine that said “Weber music hall actually rec sports building, missile silo and mutant training facility.”

Eh, whatever. I write this crap more for myself than them. I haven’t had anything in the Statesman since before spring break, and it looks like I’ve been doing nothing but spinning my literary (ha! news? as literature?!) wheels for three weeks. Luckily my Ripsaw story next week will make it all justified.

Eugh. Socks have been banned to the hamper. I can still smell them.

It’s now 1:00 in the afternoon. I woke up three hours ago and went to bed eight hours ago. Time for a Sam Adams and some hard-core story editing.