i'm in my room, with my cat, writing tiny nuggets of thought all over the internet with a bottle of maker's mark by my side.
wishing i had an old-fashioned typewriter like the behemoth my grandmother had in the garage that i picked up once, and nearly smashed my mcgregor-clad foot with.
listening to the cunty little hipster chick upstairs play rick springfield, right said fred, and robert palmer, then RATT (yes, in that order)because she's just that cool. earlier it was law and order at a high enough volume that the intermittent DUN DUN noise made my evening feel a lot more fraught with danger and intense prime-time crime drama than usual. i should thank her, actually.