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functional equivalent of a Sunday Monday, May 28 2001
On Sundays I usually have a short mental list of complex time-consuming tasks I want to try to accomplish during the course of the day. Since today was Memorial Day, it was the functional equivalent of a Sunday. I went up to drug-testing Albertson to buy bread and coffee, got myself fully-caffinated, and prepared to attack my list.
For much of the day I was frustrated by attempts to put a simple clean install of Windows 98 on one of my lesser computers (this is necessary if I ever want to use my digital videocamera as The Good Lord intended). But in other respects the day went well. I had a good phone conversation with Gretchen, I did some reasonably good writing, and I painted a picture that had been commissioned by one of my readers who happens to reside in the Old World. I've decided that from now on I will always paint any pictures commissioned via the internet; this will be the force that keeps me painting. You read it here first.
Here it is (click for a big copy):
At around 4pm John came home from a run he'd just had with Fernando and immediately proceeded to cook up another one of his super spicy meals. As a measure of how awesome he is, John always cooks me a portion whenever he prepares a meal (this is just one of the many things that is gradually forcing me to view John as a sort of idealized Matthew Hart, one with nearly all of the negative traits miraculously filtered out). The one negative trait about John's cooking is how fucking spicy it has become. This didn't used to be a problem, but it's gotten to the point now where he makes food whose difficulty transcends the merely challenging and enters the territory of punishing. It's not even the eating phase that really gets me, though. What I don't like is looking forward to every bowel movement with a sense of dread. "Will I walk away from the toilet with my asshole on fire this time or will everything be okay?"
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