You may touch, but please, wash first.

I’m pushing through the doors of the new year. Someone else is pushing out, but I won’t let that stand in my way. Where do the doors lead? Back to work, of course. It’s been a non-stop gang bang since I returned on Monday. Everyone’s in a rush to get this big piece of work completed, and I’m caught in the cross fire. It’s not bad because the week has gone by faster than my week off. There’s much afoot around here. I’m lucky to be at my desk for an hour before I have to go off and do something. I’m overwhelmed, so I hope they’re getting me an android underling. I’ve enjoyed a number of days of good cinema over the last few weeks. I haven’t gotten much of anything done, as in the sense of things that need to be done, so I suppose I’ll have a crack at that now I’m back to work. I have recurrent flashbacks of my trip to Chicago, specifically the image of Sonya’s finger waves. Sonya, I had no idea you’d have such an impact on me. My visual hallucinations (or perhaps day dreams as I stare out the office window) focus on that head you were working on. I wonder what became of him? This is not to say the time I spent with Sean was any less memorable (and, yes, for clarification it did begin to feel like the start of an illicit spring-time affair, which was made all the more confusing by the bitter sting of wintery weather…now we’ll never know what might have been, especially as Sonya wasn’t going to let go of her man no matter how many martini’s I poured down her throat). Where was I? I’m totally of my track, but I just felt like rambling. Oh, was this about a three-way with them? I don’t even remember now! I shouldn’t even begin to mention the amount of television I subjected myself to over the last few days, but I’ll give you a peek. I used the useful function of the DVR to record about 20 episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I’ve watched them all. I’ve had TWO dreams featuring Mr. Vincent D’Onofrio as his amiable character, Det. Bobby Goren. His investigatory skills were put to good use in order to solve the mystery of the Latin etymology of a particular horticultural menace, I kid you not. This was my DREAM. Somewhere, deep inside of me, lives a little old lady mystery writer trapped in a thatch roof cottage in the Cotswolds. Beee-Itch. It may not be of particular interest, and certainly provides no relevant insight, but I seem to have fewer pairs (even though they don’t come in two’s) of underwear than I thought. They seem to disappear, though they aren’t of the collectable variety. Only the newer ones, however. The older ones, they hang around forever. Which is good news, I suppose, because, if not, I’d be bare. I’ve rambled here, there and everywhere and said a lot of nothing amounting to less than, even, so here shall I stop. On a scale of one to one hundred million, three hundred and fifty thousand, and two, I would say my personal outlook has notched up about two points. That’s not so bad.