Madrigle

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evening song
Wednesday, Oct. 11, 2006 @ 8:24 p.m.

So, here I am tonight. Sitting here in the little white brocade bucket chairs that go with my martini couch I received from my dear Uncle Lane. America's next top model is over, and now PBS is on. Some narrator is going on and on about an ivestigation into the hindenburg disaster and how hydrogen may have gotten a bum rap for the disaster. Bailey is eyeing a raw peanut in it's shell holding it with his foot while he rips into it with wreckless abandon in a fashion that brings the mad hatter to mind for some reason. Merlin, aka spawn of lucifer, is sharing my foot rest with me. He's such a good dog when he's not channeling the dark one. He's loyal, plays with tennis balls, shakes your hand, but will also try to remove any appendage of yours that he's not thoroughly pleased with. Thankfully he's channeling his sire less and less. Who ever had him for the first 10 years of his life must have truly done him wrong. Mia, my little cuddle bug. She's curled up on the couch, on my, strike that, her pillow on which she has made a nest of my jacket. They both glance my way now and again saying, "When are you going to put that silly notebook away and take us to bed? hmm?" with their eyes.

Huh, evidently the outer covering of the hindenburg was coated with the same chemicals as modern day solid rocket fuel. Powdered Aluminum and Iron Oxide. Doh! That sucks.

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