Whittling my bookshelf down is difficult. It’s a heartless occupation for me, throwing out worn books. They threaten me with undefined guilt that changes my perspective on what’s between the covers. The minute I reach out my hand to pluck something from the shelf, it’s like I’m being subtly affected by a villainous mind-ray from an old radio-play. “Well, this one wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?” I’m having to use my potential time on transit as my gunpoint. If I can’t pick it off the shelf at random when I need something to read or recommend the author to a stranger, then I should discard it. Get it out of my room, out of my life, to where it might prove useful for someone else’s future summer afternoon. Unexpectedly, the speculative fiction section is proving about as hard a bitch as the out-dated medical texts.
Tossing out old clothes, however, not so hard.
Which is almost a problem.
Now I can’t find any long sleeve shirts.
I promised to duet tomorrow at the strangely awesome Veteran Hall Karaoke night, (remember, doff your hat to the Queen or be kicked out), so now my playlist consists of only two songs; Tom Jones with the Cardigans singing Burning Down the House, because it’s something that Bob and I both know, and The Pogues Fairytale of New York because my invisible roommate Ryan is a romantic bastard.
So how many of you have seen the Has President Bush Finally Bit It (let’s all sing impeachment) poll that’s up on MSNBC at the moment? I’ve been checking on it every few days to marvel at the numbers. Last look in, votes were at 203923 responses, (!!), with an 86% of Yes, Most Assuredly, Kill Pussycat Kill Kill. It’s giving me a bit of hope that otherwise I wouldn’t have what with stupid laws declaring annoying someone anonymously over the internet is now a federal crime. What we need are genetically engineered politicians who explode if they lie. Ka-blam and pink splatter everywhere, like an extremely wet ticker tape parade celebrating democracy the way it should be.