fluf·fing, 7

Current Status: Aimless Betterment If egg salad (which is ostensible) weren’t already a thing, would we perhaps call it a warm egg salad when we make up some scrambled eggs with tomatoes and sautéed kale or spinach? I guess we still could call it that, if the thought of warming up a bowl of egg salad wasn’t so gut wrenching. Cooking chicken is like playing chess - easy to do, difficult to master. Just something I've noticed. It's 9:57pm, and my neighbor is belting (no other word for it) Son of Man by Phil Collins. She is adding riffs that Phil had not imagined riffing. Do I respect the boldness or resent the deviation? I think I'd respect it if she'd knocked it outta the park, but (like Frances McDormand all too often), she did not sing (act) the fuck out of that - she simply did not. Is it that the work has to get done or the people have to stay busy? What is it to think you're both supremely loveable and destined never to be satisfactorily loved? Is that not narcissism? Is it not melancholic self-deification? Who the fuck do I think I am, flaunting my expectations at such a height like an impoppible balloon. It's 11:02pm, and my neighbor is practicing her Phantom of the Opera repertoire. Honestly she's not bad. I read my first graphic novel, and let me say - you can expect to see me again, graphic-novel-world. Brilliant. Nick? At night? Forget about it!