Neither Offered Up a Better Salutation

Do you ever think it is weird, when you are waiting for the coffee machine to run through all of its goddam checks and balances, that the chicken leg, breakfast, you so indelicately tore from the caracas on the square white plate tucked in amongst the overripe lettuce and the marg container with the half cut onion on its lid, was once warm and making "cluck cluck" sounds around your ankle region? Do you ever think about its heart beating, its body covered in feathers? No, I never have before. And I like chickens, it is one of my favourite animals.

I put Buddy out at 10pm. Mitch was in the lounge room wrapped in a blanket watching TV. I think his laptop has broken, so he has to go old school and watch the footy on teli. So no porn for the 22 year old, for the next few days, at least, I wonder how he'll cope?

The Lake House started screening… I must have fallen asleep watching it. Now there is a pelletised and bottled, subscription for falling asleep. They couldn't have done better than it they'd inserted Keanu Reeves IV into my bloodstream. (which part do you think I'd chose?) Keanu fucking me in the vein, it paints a pretty picture, now doesn't it.

Andy is heading back to the country for his father's funeral today. 

He said he was leaving at 1pm. 

I said, "Have fun."

We both stopped side by side int he kitchen, if only in silence, to momentarily ponder the inappropriateness of my response.

Neither offered up a better salutation.

Buddy spent the night in his kennel, but he scampered back up to my bed enthusiastically, me with my first coffee in my hand. I could almost make out the "woo-hoo" in the snuffles, like Scooby Doo.

The sun is shining, it is sunny Sunday. It is as good a day as any on which to get sent off. The first Sunday after you have died. I'm sure that had great spiritual resonance once. Funny what people once thought? Old Charlie, finally slipped his mortal coil. I was going to write him a poem, but I didn't. Too monged. I've never met him, of course, I've just seen a few images of him on Andy's Facebook, it is a bit hard to get any sense of someone under those circumstances. So, no poem for Charlie. Perhaps, that is what I should call it?

Sam is the plotting the death of children. Oh yes, hello and good morning to you too. Apparently, 20 kids on monkey bikes to be specific. "They just ride around and around, not going anywhere..." Apparently, I was to aide and abet this crime most fowl. "They all have to die, they woke me up." You can do almost anything, but don't get between Sam and his sleep. It never goes well. My honey needs at least 8 hours sleep to be a pleasant human being. He got sick of my lefty, pacifist, non-fatal, bullshit pretty damn quickly and declared "Off with their fucken heads," in his best Alice in Wonderland tones.

"All I need is access to a semi-automatic weapon," were his parting words.

Sam's been baby sitting the kids while the adults run the family business  He's been looking after the nephews  actually, with all those boys over there, he's been looking after the one neice. He should be sweeter, then by my reckoning. But disturb his sleep and you die, I've had some looks, let me tell you. And yet, he is the one who is incapable of letting me fall asleep on the couch, go figure.

I really must go and floss. It is one thing to not shower for four days, but not to floss, it is inhumane.

"The fat" boyfriend sure has got a bum wiggle on her, as though someone once did tell him his arse looked fat in that. He's been self conscious in the way he walks ever since. I see as I gaze down from my balcony as he heads across the street, tippy-toe balarina-style, my Statler and Waldorf routine on the inhabitants in the street.

Andy got picked up by a dowager in a Mercedes.