What I think of when I should be writing.

You know, since I am absent-minded, clumsy, and prone to carrying on vague, one-sided conversations, I sometimes wonder what it must be like to hear me puttering around upstairs in the kitchen.

"Aha! Grape juice!"

*crash*

"Well, I should have seen that one coming. Now, where did I put the-"

*beep*

"Shut up, won't you? ... What did I come in here for?"

*sound of water overflowing onto floor*

"Oh, yeah, that's it. I should get a turtle. Do cats eat turtles?"

*beep*

"Bury you under the cushions, THAT'S what I'll do. A Lit survey! That's the course I needed! Man, that is totally gonna clash with Philo- oh, the floor's wet."

*thump*

"Fell. On m'bum. And I've lost one of my slippers, how distress-"

*faint beep*

"HOW MANY CUSHIONS DO I NEED TO PUT ON YOU YOU DREADFUL... awful... ooh, Ritz crackers."

*faint beep*

*rhythmic thumps*

*muffled weeping*


In an entirely unrelated note, I've a question for any Manic Street Preachers fans on the flist:

Given that I listen to "Yes" on repeat for hours on end, and given that I tend to like bands with ridiculously devoted fan bases and tragically androgynous musicians, and given a third thing what I can't remember, should I buy The Holy Bible? And, if I do, how likely is it that I will start weeping every time I put it on, writing vaguely socialist rhyming couplets on bathroom stalls, and throwing myself off of any available cliffs?