Who'da thunk it

in which I give myself a lot of rope, and hope not to hang

I just opened up a bottle of Harbourfest wine ("Red"), and what with its shitty cork and bland mediocrity, while actually-not-bad-an-opening-kinda-like-a-softer-version-of-a-old-school-cabernet-sauvignon which unfortunately contrasts with a finish that's mediciney and 'bleh'. Look, given that i've still got cheap liquor and various cannobinols and bad caffiene and high fructose corn syrup (which is really fucking rank vile stuff, and it deserves heapings, nay, verily shovelfuls and bulldozer-capable quantities of scorn and oppobrium piled deep and high upon it) and whatever other endoc(h)ronological disruptors i've got percolating through me, I'm entitled to describe a wine as 'bleh'.

So right now, i've got to deal with a beautiful imperious purring cat, who feels that her perfect place of repose is where perchance I wish to lay and rest my not particularly weary head, who looks up at me with baleful and cynical catseyes, and gets twitchy and nervous with jealousy at this clanking clack-clack-clack that so distracts my hands from rubbing her fluffy little cheeks.

This calls for icecream.

Harbourfest? Cats? Icecream? More to come, in the next instalment:

wherein I continue merrily merrily merrily on this Joycean stream, and also use that other Joycean phenom of claiming to have a productive day, when only two lines were written. Inbetween, I hope that I try to leave David Foster Wallace's body a recognisable mess, after I am done thoroughly (and I mean thoroughly) raping it.