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Oh jeez. Poetry month is over. I have to come up with content again.

OK, yeah, I've been posting 'content' as well as poems, but I'm boring myself; I can't even imagine how I'm not boring other people.

Sadly, part of the reason I'm boring myself here is because the rest of my life is too fragmented for words. Four more years, and perhaps I can start enjoying May again: between the end of the school year at home and work, and (this year) the upending of the consortium at work, there are just Too Many Things and I find myself mentally chanting the family schedule in my head constantly in order to keep it straight. I could post it here too. Over and over and over. Wouldn't that be fun? Watch the blogger devolve into drooling and playing with her fingers in a semi-catatonic state. Whee.

If only I felt like the meetings were promoting forward progress. If only I felt like some of the big time-users (ahem...EIGHTH GRADE DANCE...ahem) weren't a gi-fucking-normous waste of oxygen and time. If only, if only, if wishes were horses... (insert giggle) ... but they aren't.

Last night, Beast came across some channel broadcasting Bill Cosby's Himself, which Beast and I, and my brother, can quote almost all the way through. For instance: "And tired always followed sick. Worst beating I ever got in my life, my mother said, 'Well I am just sick,' and I said 'And tired.' I don't remember anything after that." I was crying with laughter at one point, the point at which he imitates his wife talking to herself after sorting out the kids and getting them into bed: "My wife comes downstairs with a broken stick. She throws it on the table and begins to talk out loud to... NOBODY!" Hello, me. Oh, and the yardstick thing? Hello, my mother. She went through so many yardsticks.

So that was good. And now, today, I have commitments around the house to handle. Goodbye.