(no subject)

[botias]

I've been very much looking forward to reading my new book on the rise and fall of industrial melanism, attained during a naughty trip to Powell's City of Books in Portland. I thought I had grabbed it before settling into the spa tub at the hotel (must get cheaper room in the future, I can always pack a swimsuit and go out to the hot tub), but I had grabbed something nearly as good instead, and it didn't seem worth getting out of the tub. A few days after we got home, I poured myself a tall one and went in search of it again, but with bewildering lack of success. A suspicion dawns. I recall having thoughts that this bit of pop-science fluff was probably not worth $24.50, and I really ought to be a good girl and put it back on the shelf. Dammit. Not all that cheap on half.com, not at the library. Ah well, it was just published this year, maybe someday it will come my way at a bargain price. The city was tempting me this time, my favorite health food store chain had opened up a block from Powell's, Thai food was as awesome as ever, city having a summer-long Japanfest, kites and tremendous drums, my former life winks and waves. But largely, I think, because I'm feeling scared, not a good reason to do anything.

I had no idea I threw things so much. Well sure, I think I'm 'tossing' things, but some subtleties (not as many as some might think) can be lost on a toddler. I throw things all the time. I didn't realize that I said so many things I wouldn't want my toddler to repeat. I don't want him to tell me that his lunch tastes like ass, or that his new 'jammies suck. I don't think I used to talk this way. What has South Park done to me?