Stuff I’ve recently heaped on my tumblr blog. PS, I mention my illness, below. That was a while ago. I am happy to report that the last four days have been cough-free. Four well days out of the last four months!

The out-of-control misuse of the word “literally” is the new “it’s/its” virus — that is to say, designed to make me INSANE.

. . . . .

it occurred to me today that i always, dependably, without fail, burn my fucking tongue on trader joe’s burritos. every dangdoodly time. what am i, a moron? can’t i wait until the hot-lava bean goo cools down a couple minutes? apparently, i can’t.

in other news, this is the first crabby thought i’ve had since i got back from my fantastic vacation.

in other other news, flashdance is on, which makes everything better.

. . . . .

The popularity of Greek yogurt proves the fact that we humans just want to spoon great piles of stuff that tastes like sour cream into our mouths all the time. Opa!

. . . . .

Jeers: films that have their soundtracks mixed really loud and the voice tracks low so you have to crank the volume to hear the voices — but then the music is blasting.

Jeers to really ornate, intrusive soundtracks, too.

In other words, Mildred Pierce is driving me crazy.

In other news, I’ve been sick in bed for days.

. . . . .

In Los Angeles, many hours too early for Dorkbot. Fortunately, the Dorkbot venue is next door to a very nice LA Public Library Branch.

I was was pretty surprised at how civilized the library denizens are here; the usual cadre of homeless people are in the periodicals section, looking quite non-crazy and non-stinky, and all is quiet and studious and very pleasant.

At the next table over, I glanced at a man who was working hard on something — taxes? homework? a well-researched love letter? — lots of books open as he wrote and wrote on sheets of paper.

Suddenly, his entire body was engulfed by a disgusted grimace; he actually shook his fists in frustration as he slammed his books shut.

As he stomped off to the exit, he balled up all his handwritten papers and chucked them at a receptacle, right near me. They sit on the floor, there. Just. Over. There.

I am dying to look at the papers. Dying! I could probably saunter over there and pretend to drop something as I scoop up the contraband.

But I’m not going to. I think maybe this time the mystery will be better than the reality. At least that what I’m telling myself as I pack up and move my wimpy ass out the door.