I’ve never understood online journals and blogs and other published works that talk about how their parents don’t read them. I can’t even fathom it. If I published a list of my bowel movements every day and posted it on the internet where it could be easily found, my Mom would read it. Yeah, that was really gross. And Mom, I don’t mean that you dig bowel movements. It’s just that my Mom always checks on my pages and probably reads this fairly regularly and I just can’t imagine having a column or regular writing space that wasn’t hidden and yet wasn’t read by my Mom (and more stealthily by my Dad). It does mean that with anything I write in here I have to always keep in mind that Mommy & Daddy will be reading it (you’ll have to email or talk to me personally for the dirty stuff I guess), but I like the idea that they care that much about what I do and what I have to say. Part of my center of the universe complex or something. But I can’t imagine them not wanting to know what’s going on with me and in my head and all. I’d be the same with them I think. But there are lots of ways that other family dynamics leave me befuddled. I like the way mine works and I don’t care if it’s strange.

So, last night it rained and rained and rained (and is continuing to rain even now). I was reading Q is for Quarry (I like the high-end stuff, ba-bee) and freaked myself out. I was jumpy for some reason anyway and then with the rain and the dead people in the book and the cats being weird and the wind and the strange noises… I was convinced some man was hiding in my kitchen (for some reason I never fear murderous women) plotting to put a knife in the top of my skull the moment I turned out the lights and closed my eyes. Yes, I was as rational as a three year old last night. And now am as cranky as a three year old without her nap. And I have to fight the urge to nap so I can sleep like a normal person tonight. Why can’t I ever sleep like a normal human being? Anyway, I was all afraid of some man stepping out of my kitchen and tossing a knife into the top of my skull. ‘Cause it’s so likely a man could sneak into my tiny little basement apartment with the locked doors and bars on the windows and all and I wouldn’t even know it and the cats wouldn’t care and so on and so forth. DKE’s a complete freak cat when anyone but me is in the apartment but apparently the knife wielding psycho can tame her heart. I really shouldn’t be allowed to live on my own.

See, now I’m exhausted and delirious.