New dog: Rambling Wreck

Heloooo. I am Rambling Wreck, known to my friends, which includes everyone I ever met, as Ramble. I have not completely proven it yet, but I believe I am the boss of everybody. And everything.

Hmmmm. Here's a leg... I have to pee....how convien..... (Whap!!) Whoa, dude-what was that for???? Are you out of your ever lovin' mind?

The washing machine is my throne, the laundry room, my kingdom.

I will have been home 3 weeks when I head down to Houston in April. 3 whole weeks. That's been nice.

I googled "Raconteurs Bang Bang" to find a video, which I found on youtube by the way, and one of the less useful entries that came up was a blog from Europe somewhere. It was devoted to music, but had this, which I found interesting in a point blank sort of way, on the sidebar:

Tax is stolen money -

und darum sind wir auch der Meinung,

daß sie grundsätzlich hinterzogen werden sollten!

Yeah, what he said.

Threads of thoughts:

Then, as I touched her hand, she smiled. And her smile spoke little more than, "I missed you." But her eyes reminded me, chided me, taunted me. Her eyes laughed. They danced. And most of all they whispered, "I know you're not quite sure what you don't want. And I know how to make you need it."

How to make me need it? She believes such nonsense? I am free thinking. I am freestanding. I am complete. Among the many, I am strong. Among the followers, Iam the light. "Woman", I thought, "You're here at my pleasure. You are here for my pleasure. You haven't the luxury of, nor the permission for, spinning tales that stretch such length." If only I were able to believe what I needed to believe.

Sure, I can lie. I lie to Anderson almost daily. I lie about my intents and I palm the coins of excess change. I wear misrepresentation like comfortable jeans. Deciept is only a problem for others. Yet... I can't lie to me. I know the truth. And dammit all to hell, apparently so does she. She thinks she can make me need what I assume I don't want? Impossible. Because, though kept in a tiny box in an out of the way, yet oft visited corner of my sullen, sulking heart, I know that not only do I want it. I crave it. Stupid woman. Stupid heart.

Sanjaya must die, out

Ramblin' Ed