oh how it is one of those nights. where you lie and wonder. and by lie i don't mean tell un-truths. or maybe i do. but only to myself. delusion is much more fun than real life, isn't it?

now, how was that for a cheery intro? i am really am working on my evening enthusiasm.

really just another example of melodramtics for dummies. a book i seem to be writing quite prolifically.

and why not? i mean, i love to wax on (wax off) about my oh-so-deep-and-meaningful soul searchings. i look into myself, see, and then see a murky, murky mess of well, messiness. my heart's littered with junk and discarded things, much like the the floor of my bedroom.

and let's not even start on my mind. an attic in desperate need of an overhaul -- full of forgotten conversations, half-finished stories and excuses. and stacked everywhere, everywhere! are wordplays. piles and piles and boxes and drawers and closets of wordplays, waiting to escape my mouth and see the light of play. wordplay that is.

you know those moments where you think, "well, things might be severely bizarre right now - but everything will settle into some sort of normalcy soon?" yes, those. is it just my perpetually high level of optimism to expect, to hope, to feel that things will somehow work out?

or am i just mildly clueless?

very possibly both.

when oh when where oh where how oh how.

there you go - a lament for you. but a well-meant lament. i'm not really down. more like up-side down. mixed up like batter. muffin batter that has pockets of baking powder still floating in it. you know the one - so when you bite into it, it seems all nice and perfect, but underneath (or rather, a few bites in) the flaws appear.

but flaws are appealing, aren't they. or is that endearing. yes, they are endearing. the scars that allude to resolve through adversity, the lines that remind of laughs - these are the things that make us delightfully human. and if that sounded overly schmaltzy, well, that's because it was. aparently i am in the mood to be all dewy-eyed today. and by today i mean tonight, as it is once again later than it should be.

so am i overly sentimental because i should be writing about beer? perhaps. it would make perfect sense in this cruel, cruel world that the one night i am supposed to pen sharp witticisms about brew-drinking, i am instead spurting forth dull-minded girlicisms. it's like i should be doodling in the margin of this macbook, dreamy nonsensical things, or my name over and over in childish cursive. not that you can do that on a computer. but oh, imagine that you could.

another saturday night and i aint got no buddies.

alright, so that's pretty much a lie, but it did sound good, didn't it. and there's a smidgen of truth to it, since my ichat buddy list is woefully empty at the moment. not that i expect a gaggle of gabbers at 9:20 pm. i myself should be out right now, but can't be bothered to move. lethargy has glued me to this chair, and it's a sticky business.

also, it is bone-chillingly chilly in this apartment of mine, even though the radiators are on. now, i know the radiators are on because they are hissing louder than a pit of snakes. in fact, they hiss so loudly, i cannot sleep. venomous evil things.

instead, i lie awake, daydreaming in the middle of the night.

hazy dazy lazy.

an intelligent start to what promises to be a whole string of intelligent words. and by string i mean a knotted mess, tangled beyond any hope of untangling. spring was descending upon us quite beautifully, and then the snow decided to do one last encore. as it always does, every year. and every year we forget, and welcome anything above 2 degrees with open arms, open jackets, and even open patios. and then, the white powder snorts down on our little pretend-world, leaving us high & well, not very dry.

after all, this type of april shower will bring nary a flower. just an extra hour on the highway in traffic as we all trudge home for the holiday weekend. yes, home for the holidays - in my easter bonnet, i could write a sonnet. though i really haven't been much for poetry composition of late, something i'll have to remedy while i'm vacationing from real life.

what is it that makes us revert and regress as soon as we are under the roof of our parents?

i don't even have the excuse that it's the house i grew up in, and so it's like walking into the past. no, this house of "mine" is really just a facade. so any return to adolescent whine patrol is all my own fault. should i stay out past curfew and drink in the park? or stomp around hating my life, before locking myself in my room to listen to some life-changing grunge or grateful dead? so many options.

i think i'll probably just act like the outwardly grown up inwardly messy nerdling that i am, and write some poems, eat some gourmet, drink some red & think about spring. last minute snow spit, be damned.

it's coming, i know it is. and with it, a whole lot of who knows what.