My heavy bangs, which have in certain circles been predicted to be quite fashionable in the coming year, have been blown dry and straight, while the rest of my hair is sitting damp and limp on my back and shoulders, in the midst of a half ass attempt at being curly. I am eating stolen biscotti with my tea. How many can allege to have eaten stolen biscotti? Not many. I am now a part of an elite community whose sole claim is to have eaten a pilfered petrified pastry. I know what you’re thinking, but lets face it, life isn’t fair. I have spent more time writing today than I have in the past month or more combined. I wanted to say “writing rubbish” but I made split-second pact with myself to never call anything I write rubbish, as it would only make me think negatively on the little writing that I do these days. My canine encumbrance (notice that I’ve changed the commonly used ‘companion’ to something slightly more, um, accurate; this is no mistake) has been somewhere in the vicinity of my feet for hours. She is dreaming her doggy dreams, doggedly chasing something worthwhile (her tail) no doubt, with one eye open, lest a real threat (her tail) that needs her attention present itself.

I was listening to Tchaikovsky a few minutes ago because I needed something wordless and non-depressing (see previous Boards of Canada entry) to listen to. Yeah….no. That lasted for a couple of nocturnes, when I felt the little burrito of my soul unfold and begin to wither. I knew then that it was time for a change of pace. I selected track one of Best of Flamenco, which is, obviously, the best of flamenco, and pushed play. Now, not only is my burrito revamped and refolded, I’d venture to call it a burrito supreme.