Good morning, desolate

It's unusual being the only one awake in the house at 10.22 on a Saturday. My mother, usually awake around six or seven, fell asleep on the couch again a few minutes ago and the rabbit... no, I take that back. Asphodel just hopped up to my feet, but he was asleep under the dresser a second ago. However, my mother spoke— at unusual length, considering when I got home— about the terrible migraine and illness that overcame her yesterday. Yeah yeah, she already made the swine flu joke, but it's slightly more serious since drive-a-spike-through-my-head-to-make-the-pain-stop migraines were my first symptom when I had pneumonia last year.

So where does this leave me? I had a frozen waffle— yes, still frozen— a while ago, and I really have no other interest in eating except maybe a cup of tea. Which I can't make because I don't want to wake up my mother. Instead, I am sitting at the computer, frequently getting lost in thought as I write to no one about nothing and listen for probably the 50th time to the Dresden Doll's "Boston." No mean feat considering it's seven minutes long.

I had so much intention for this post; talking about how I hate the traffic going across the bay, how we trekked maybe half a mile around Berkeley in the rain, how everything in an unnatural state, including my hair, must revert to a natural state. But all of this somehow seems unimportant and not even worth expanding on to nobody now. It would be terrible for my sleep cycle, but I feel like going back to bed. I was having an alright dream; no bitches encouraging certain alcoholic guitarists to sluttery, no being covered in gallons of blood.

"Don't worry who all these jokes will be lost on. Come back to bed, my darling. There is nothing in the world we can count on. Even that we will wake up is an assumption." I couldn't have said it better myself, Miss Palmer.

Fuck it. I have a witch to burn.