I went down to the docks because I hadn't left the house today and needed to remember what the sun felt like.
Good, is the answer, especially when accompanied by Good Omens, which I haven't read in a while; I miss the days when I was reading it every other month, before
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milliways_bar when I didn't read it for over a year for fear it'd remind me how much I was fucking up my characterisation. (I swear I wasn't, not really, not as much as I was told.)
On the way back I saw a vacant lot with the staining of an outlined house on the brick wall next to it, the absence where a wall and a roof and a chimney had been, and I thought about Merlin standing there in the dark (save for the gold in his eyes) as he concentrated and pulled and painted with his mind, collecting a shop from pieces and memories and time and collating it around himself, unremarkable and unremarked because it'd always been there of course. Since yesterday, and forever.
And then I saw roll on foundation advertised in the window of Boots, and it annoyed me in the way of the crack filling polyfilla makeup, thinking about masking tape carefully pressed around lips so as not to fuck up the edging, thinking about how no one wants to know what you really look like until waking up, until too late. "Do you feel like you ought to be punished for your looks?" "I
am punished for my looks." And the ridiculousness of the premise of that film, that Uma Thurman could be more attractive than Janeane Garofalo's wit, and cynicism, and smile.
My brain's not as on the ball as I'd like. I think I need to own my grump-nuggetedness, because feeling guilty about it is getting me nowhere, making me feel worse, and it's taking too long for the hormones to clear out.
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