Self-indulgence

Something inside is trying to get out it aches like anticipation. Apprehension and joy in one torn scab of pain and pleasure. Here I am again in the sterile environment of blog, sans paper and pen only because it's quick and easy to edit, this electronic robotic mechanism of keyed words.

What is it? The holidays? Raymond Scott's Powerhouse? The new cat? That I found a penny today, looked for someone I knew, or am full of milk? You may suffer, O Anonymous Reader, whilst I plod forward. Paint the apartment. Toss out junk. Feng shui myself into arranged auspicious life. Everything at once, and make that now.

Zounds.