Egg Whites, Third Sunrise

I only ate one meal yesterday, an inadvertent accident of sorts. I tried the Danish pancakes with a dash of the usual maple and a generous fork scrape of cocoa almond spread, and after dealing with Tim's failing short term memory, I collapsed, but still not sleeping well.

I am making my omelet now, bland, but with cheddar, in my Marathon Grill bowl, to keep it round, and it will fill me but most likely give me phlegm fever. I am used to that, and honestly, I am partial to unfertilized chicken eggs, and would readily eat any other edible poultry eggs. The difference this morning is I did not make a sandwich, but dressed two slices of sourdough on the side. I splattered on the kindle and polished the screen with the splatter, but ate, no reading. Still hungry, as can reasonably be expected, but the edge is off of being famished, and think I can recline, but non!

Alas! Back cushion!

The aeros have either not come in or went to the package room Thursday, and no one notified me. Remember the shot of Michael C Hall screaming in the funeral parlor? Ah ha, she says, grinning. Life is not only irrational, but inexorably silly, and I do not want to go into remission (actually relapse, but an interesting error) to tobacco at my old levels, which is going to happen unless I find another type of aid, and after I balance my accounts, I am going to research the electric brands. I highlighted the danger of the dependency of David Foster Wallace, but cannot solve my own. Any one have a preference in terms of atomizers? Does anyone ever answer my questions posed in these posts? So many stubborn tanka bloggers, eh?

The weekend will be ecumenical, of course, unless I stream, and I may finally be in the mood to do so, but Mel's Passion is running later this evening, and spastic wants to see . Mel is, understandably, everyone's favorite pissing pony, and the late Hitchens went after him over his ultra conservative Catholicism, but he is also quite an interesting director, and I am not afraid of his spiritual quest. I do not believe in a god, or a divine, but science cannot answer certain questions about self-recognition, and aspiration. Sam Harris'es materialistic rap of Mother Teresa as clearly depressed, this is not enough for me, because I've felt the earth rock beneath the vinyl sling on which I sit, not that I can call it a vocation of faith.

I might have saved myself some personal anguish not to have trusted in the intensity of what I felt when I was young, nor putting all my eggs into Linda's basket as I hit major trouble in my mid-30's (a young middle age, enjoy while you have it), but that intensity may not always be in the realm of the pathology of the overwrought. The drama queen might kick in if I ever saw Jerry again, of course, throwing myself out of the wheelchair, he'd ask, "What are you doing? You alright?" While I'd land on my knees, tears welling up, my voice crying, "I failed," as if I held it there, my greatest sin in a display case.

But I wouldn't want to cause him another cardiac incident.