It is simply impossible to read nineteenth century literature when you are one wall away from incredibly loud sex, and only a fool would try. Not being a fool, I've put away my book and chosen, instead, to stare angrily at my empty ashtray as though by doing so I could magically make a lit cigarette appear in my fingers, perhaps adorned by a lovely thirties style cigarette holder and a cigarette case engraved with my name and suitably extravagant filigree surrounding it. Also, I'm wearing headphones and listening to music, which makes it a little bit difficult for me to keep from laughing when the cat wanders in, sits in front of me, and tries to talk to me. I'm not listening, but I can see her mouth moving.

It's a lot like when the crazy woman down the street talks to me. Which she does less and less now, thank the Lord, though she has taken to glaring at me whenever I walk by because I declined her feral kittens. Which -- seriously? "Oh this kitten is feral! It's afraid of humans! It's cute, but still it tried to claw it's way out of my arms and I was streaked with blood while trying to explain to you that it could some day be a great pet!" That's just not a good way to sell someone on something. Do you see people lining up to have pet monitor lizards? No, because they have savage teeth and can be violent, from what I understand. This is much like the crazy woman's kittens.

I have wandered far far into the land of digression. Please God, make me a bird and fly back to my point.

... Strangely, it appears that I do not, in fact, have a point. I'm in a weird tired mood wherein everything that could easily be positive can just as easily be flipped into a negative framework. It's like my brain has become a Rubix cube, looking only for the right alignment to make actual values of 'good' or bad' .... okay, that simile got so far away from me, and taught me a lesson, dear readers: When you are tired, and find yourself typing? Do not let inertia set in, or you will only confuse yourself, and everyone else.