I know it’s very weird to be rehearsing with a band that I’m not part of, but given that Mayhem has constraints (how can Mayhem HAVE constraints) that I can’t get into, because, strangely, reasons involving stupidity on the part of others in foreign climes, I kind of have to. I suppose that wasn’t really a useful or discursive thing to say. But I was singing last night and Peggy fed me and Shad an awesome dinner. I loves me some Peggy.
I am writing, I am editing, and it all goes glacially slowly. About three hundred words a day and maybe a page of edits.
I am seeing if I can go more than a couple of weeks without drinking. I no longer seem able to process beer and it makes me really really sad. It shouldn’t because, hey, water comes out of a tap and that was Adam’s ale, and Vancouver has the best municipal water system in the world, and the tap water is yummy, but I all sad face. Like I want to make a painting of a stubby or something. Also, there is no chocolate cake in the house. There should at least be cookies. And I can always make more cake. There is a drained lake of beer in my heart that only cake or possibly cookies can fill.
People want to know how much I’m seeing Alexander. I’m seeing him as much as his mother and I agree seems to be right, and while it could be more, my own dear Grandma didn’t see me until I was walking, and it really helps to keep a sense of perspective about these matters. If somebody wants my advice they can scarcely get the request out before I’m a-schpraying them, firehose-wise, with a side of and-another-things. I have concerns of my own, thank the dear one. Being an introvert Grandma is an interesting experience.
