I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting. Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale
This doesn't have much to do with anything, other than vaguely touching upon the passing of time, and the fact that when I was one-and-twenty, this sentiment rather appealed. Apart from getting wenches with child. I wasn't doing much of that back then. Or stealing and fighting and wronging the ancientry, unless you mean short-changing the old piss-heads in the pub I worked in.
What little point can be found here is this: When you're busy and times are good you don't want to bother yourself with something as silly as a blog post, and when times are quiet and life is dull, what is there to write about? Memories?
She's just left, and we've said goodbye for the last time. Except, like, because, y'know, um, last time because the next time I see her will be when I move over there, not for the last time because we're not gonna see each other again. Why, it's just not like that, I tell ya.
So I'm back here, she's back there, and I hate to say that things are back to normal. I want to shift the idea of normality from "the situation I'm in most of the time" to "the situation I'm in where things feel best". Who said normality is a matter of quantity and not quality? The dictionary? Oh, screw those guys. They've got clever-people degrees and satisfy themselves with intellectual discourse and rhetoric. That ain't no fun.
So: normality is two to a bed, slowly waking up and not caring about the weather outside. Reading things and not only knowing they're about you and your life, but knowing they're about you and your life now.
"There's a reason they call it the present, man." Shut up.
Normality vs reality. Reality is cold mornings, grumpy train journeys alone, and a teeny lingering scent in my bed. Reality's a bitch, and I aim to get her fixed before she shits puppies all over my nice ideal of life. I'm taking Reality to the vet on February 7th. 7 February, me and that bitch are gonna ride down to the US Embassy, and the government-approved vet is gonna fix up Reality for good. No more misery-pups, just a good, obedient ol' girl who fetches my slippers and a beer, and sleeps at the foot of the bed made and occupied by two.
WOW. That was one horrible metaphor.