I’m thinking what I should do is write more. Not just in my LJ but privately as well. The more your write, the more you write. So they say. And writing was always something that made me feel good. Helped me work through things or figure things out. Why don’t I do it like I used to? I’d like to blame it on my back problem, but even that is a very flimsy excuse.

So.

I bought this plant at a yard sale last month. It cost two dollars. It’s tall, almost as tall as me, and crammed painfully into its clay pot. The roots have crept out the bottom and reach for life, all dry and withered. I tried watering it and pruning it, but it was probably half dead when I bought it. Perhaps if I bought it a new pot, one twice as large.

So anyway the leaves kept yellowing and falling off, then the ants got interested in it for whatever reason, so finally I took it outside into the entry way. Today our landlady leaves us this note hoping that we will soon remove the ugly dead plant. Oh well. Sorry, plant! Sorry our apartment doesn’t get any goddamn southern exposure.

Nick and Yuri came back from two weeks in Australia, Nick’s native land. Apparently it was swoony and they both want to emigrate. Well, who can blame them. Canada looks tempting, next to this plutocracy. But anyway, I was feeding their kitties whilst they were away. Good keekees, they are. Except for whoever destroyed the toilet paper. Nick has the Tivo and he had lots of good chocolate, of which I took a small sampling. They also have a HOT TUB in the back yard, which Brian and I relaxed in a couple of times.

It’s lovely to be soaking in a hot tub outdoors while fog is swirling all around. Almost as neat as a couple winters ago at my half-uncle’s cabin, taking a jacuzzi outdoors as it snowed.