My post subjects, unless kicked there by an 'assistant' of Grandmaster Iron Crotch, never really seem to make it above the belt. So much for contemplating my navel. Right now, there's a big melt on in fair Montreal. Historical evidence points to January as generally being a contrived effort by Ms. Nature to cryotorture us into staying indoors and be creative. I wonder if a mild January will make for a boringer, unstimulatinger summer (comparative to those years, when all creative endeavors seem a product of being boarded, and bored, up inside while Moontreal strips your fleshy existence of all joy and comfort). So now, the streets are smeared with thawed shit, the waterdrops-eye-view, dangling above a 3 storey plummet, is waiting for your upturned neck-lapel to walk beneath it and lycra-clad joggers are descending upon you right now. Citizens, stay inside!
Justine, Amy and I are looking for a roomate. So far, they've all been inappropriate matches. The last was a roly-poly Hungarian who freaked me out a bit. She didn't like us, or the room, or the fantastic house we live in. Glad she's gone. As Isabel asked, do we even want a roomate?