SO. BORED. I'm reading this cranky wanker's book on academic archives. I still have another 125 pages or so to go to finish it. SO. BORED. And my head hurts.

Back in my 1960s history class, we had a resource book called Takin' it to the Streets: A Sixties Reader, that was pretty awesome. All kinds of primary source material for the civil rights, New Left, counterculture, Black Power, anti-war movements, you name it. It also included this article by Lucian Truscott IV from the Village Voice concerning the Stonewall riots. The thing that struck me, reading this article originally, was how free it felt. The tone is so...happy.

Oh man, you guys. You guys. I totally want to dominate the world with y'all. (My evol plan, since I suppose I should mention it? Backrubs. I shall make everyone succumb to me, one by one. With backrubs. I once started an entire row of people sitting on the steps down the house in our mainstage, giving the person sitting in front of them a backrub. It was glorious.)

Also? I ATE A STRAWBERRY LAST NIGHT & HAVEN'T DIED YET. I've been allergic to strawberries for about twenty years. If I'm still not dead, I consider this a minor victory. I don't think I'll eat more than one strawberry at a time though. Color me paranoid. Or just hive-y. (I was a bit itchy last night. But I think it was bug bites, not hives. I hope.)

Mmm. Strawberries.

So, speaking of things that I love, and gakking from loads of people on my flist--

I love

giving backrubs. Blueberries. Cheesecake. Pineapple pizza from Papa John's. Plosives and clickatives. Alliteration. Weskits. Rolled-up shirtsleeves. Acoustic guitars. Harmonies. Green trees and blue skies and horizons stretching out as far as the eye can see while driving on the interstate. The breeze. Fireflies. The changing of the seasons. Baking with my mom. Walking arm-in-arm with my friends. Visiting with old friends. Snuggling. Illya Kuryakin doing gymnastics. The cast of Barney Miller. Big Finish audios. Parker and Hardison. Builds and undercuts. People who know their shit. Water. Underwater archaeology. The 1830s. Words. Sunlight. Going underground by myself in a hoist in solid dark while singing Sinead O'Conner songs. Simon and Garfunkel lyrics, and Dean Martin's voice, and the Smother Brothers singing "Chocolate," and the intense comfort of happy memories. My nephew. My new car. My old car. Roses. Puppies. Cats. Making babies giggle. Making other people giggle. Giggling. Connections. The network of people that I know across this small world. The Indiana Dunes. Gage Park. Forest Park. Lake Storey. Fireworks. County roads. New experiences.

FOIA is back in, Guantanamo is out, apparently. You know, I keep telling myself to wait and see what happens, since we're only two days in, but jeez, it's kinda hard to avoid the emotional high.

Bodily humor does not usually amuse me (this is why I have mixed feelings about Death at a Funeral and didn't particularly care for Tropic Thunder)--and I do mean bodily, as opposed to slapstick or physical comedy--but, apparently, me coughing up a lung while attempting to record the credits for an audio play is hilarious, judging by the fact that I'm still giggling over it. (I don't usually laugh that much when I'm by myself. Honest I don't.) It was kinda like a Red Dwarf outtake actually. Anyway.

I keep being mildly surprised when I see a post on my flist that isn't election-related.

This, unsurprisingly, is going to be election-related.

I did not vote today. I voted last week with a mail-in ballot, and I made damn sure I had that sucker in the mail with plenty of time to arrive in the right place. And I spent a lot of this morning fidgeting about at work (as I hung off a ladder like the consummate box monkey that I am), and then this afternoon one of the reference people fetched us newbies to help some of the archives staff out with a minor flood, so we were interleaving maps and documents and things with blotting paper for an hour or two.

And I sort of forgot about the election for a while.

I don't know what's going to happen tonight and tomorrow. Life's going to go on, and it might get better sooner or it might stay worse for a while longer. I don't know, I can't say, and I'm a tiny bit terrified about what might happen.

We've been going through this every four years for almost 200 years, though. I feel better when I take the long view.

I wanna be a cat when I grow up. Better yet, a dog, so I can wiggle my butt tail without anyone giving me weird looks.

"Something wonderful is going to happen," I told mom the other day. When she looked skeptical--and well she might--I went on, "I don't know what it will be, but in the next year something wonderful is going to happen. Even if I have to go out and beat it over the head to happen."

So there you go. Call it a prophesy, a premonition, a bloody New Year's Resolution, a faith, an order. Something abso-bloody-lutely wonderful is going to happen, even if I have to go out and create my own crukking miracle.