Sunny Days
The gray skies of Seattle have finally shown themselves to be more than myth, but I’m tapping my foot to the latest Jonathan Coulton song, a cheerful little tune indeed!
It seems that I’ve contracted some sort of northern malady, previously unknown to this son of the lower latitudes. All of my fingernails are cracking and splintering, often lengthwise, much to my displeasure. I shall call this new disease “Fisherman’s Flake” or perhaps “Crabulon’s Revenge” would be more appropriate. The sea, she is a cruel mistress.
Urban living comes naturally, it seems, to Ember. She wandered into our bedroom the other night, singing in her best Snoop Dogg voice, “Laid baaaack… got my chicken nuggets and my money on my mind.” She’s already begun rewriting “twinkle twinkle, little star” as a more up-beat pop tune in her spare time.
20 floors up, and every so often I will feel a faint swaying beneath me as I sit at my desk. I postulate therefore that 1) this is common to highrise buildings, 2) I’m imagining it, or 3) Mt. Rainier is getting ready to blow up. Sometimes I’m glad that my life isn’t narrated by an ominous Orson Welles voiceover, quoting random bits of Nostradamus. Though, come to think of it, that would be pretty cool.
“At the ninth year of the new century, in the grey city, shall rise the half-legged monarch. His claw un-matched, shall draw the life of many.”
The words of a madman, or a chilling prophecy of things to come?
It seems that I’ve contracted some sort of northern malady, previously unknown to this son of the lower latitudes. All of my fingernails are cracking and splintering, often lengthwise, much to my displeasure. I shall call this new disease “Fisherman’s Flake” or perhaps “Crabulon’s Revenge” would be more appropriate. The sea, she is a cruel mistress.
Urban living comes naturally, it seems, to Ember. She wandered into our bedroom the other night, singing in her best Snoop Dogg voice, “Laid baaaack… got my chicken nuggets and my money on my mind.” She’s already begun rewriting “twinkle twinkle, little star” as a more up-beat pop tune in her spare time.
20 floors up, and every so often I will feel a faint swaying beneath me as I sit at my desk. I postulate therefore that 1) this is common to highrise buildings, 2) I’m imagining it, or 3) Mt. Rainier is getting ready to blow up. Sometimes I’m glad that my life isn’t narrated by an ominous Orson Welles voiceover, quoting random bits of Nostradamus. Though, come to think of it, that would be pretty cool.
“At the ninth year of the new century, in the grey city, shall rise the half-legged monarch. His claw un-matched, shall draw the life of many.”
The words of a madman, or a chilling prophecy of things to come?
posted by Wormius at 11:10 AM
1 Comments:
Even in the truly springulous beauty of a Texas day, things seem a little shinier when I imagine you sitting there with the Orson Welles VO.
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