Looking For The Next Right Thing To Do

I washed my pink Nalgene today, while doing a load of dishes as penance for being the Mr. Big of roommates, and realized that my blue Nalgene has been sitting precisely where I put it in August since August. I can't move it now. It's tradition. If I come in in the late afternoon, when a rare unreflected sunglow has come in the window, it casts a modest little blue stain on the blond floor. It's my little cathedral by the bookcase. As I washed the pink, I rubbed off spit that collected in my mouth (and maybe Khaki's) in Montana in May. The spit's still on the blue.

NB: This blog's getting long enough that when you scroll down it -- get this -- it really looks like a scroll. This makes me feel like Jack Kerouac. Further evidence of the affinity? I feel pretty indifferent to women and their sexual favors, but I would like one to wash my dishes.