Things are strange when there's more than an inch of snow on the ground in Georgia twice in one month. And here I am, addressing the weather.
Ely's been biting in increasingly formidable and damaging ways, and there is the possibility of putting him to sleep, which may be for the best, but as Doug pointed out like the astute pseudo-adult that he is, the thought of Ely's smell vanishing from the house is bizarrely off-putting and sad and strange. Sometimes I mark eras in my life by the lifespans of pets. When Ely was born I was fifteen. I wore dark makeup. I wrote solely about disease and heroines with embarrassingly Baroque names. Probably while listening to embarrassingly Baroque music. And having embarrassingly Baroque crushes. We never got along very well, our relationship wavering between red rockets and bared teeth, snarling standoffs over the years becoming more strained, and as it stands now he barely tolerates me unless no one else is in the house, in which case in desperation he squeals for me to pick him up and swaddle him in blankets, which I refuse to do out of sheer terror.
In other news, I spent the day dressing models while wearing only black, which is something I hadn't necessarily foreseen. I also ate an entire miniature pizza in front of them, which did not make me feel bad about myself one bit. A feat.
I'm thinking of doing a prose poem series about sports. Back to basics. 1B Delgado on the DL.
Less thinking, more doing.
I remember when I used to try doing experimental things with my writing, like writing about miniature golfing in Middle English. Sometimes I wonder if doing this detracts from storytelling or if it enhances what could otherwise be ordinary. I guess both.
I'm going to bed before ten thirty. Tomorrow morning, I will walk past Hollister while wearing all black on my way to dress models.