Tonight I come to you with little to say. I fear I will slip into rambling. It's the warmest night of the year, and everyone was out as I walked back from the lab. I passed several attractive women who dared not look at me. I am a mugger at best, more likely a rapist. Tomorrow I will go to see James and Adair and the following day I will trip. I should be happy. The weekend is almost upon me. I've forgotten to do my laundry and now it is too late. I will have to take it with me. I will make them soup as well. It is not very good soup, but I will make it for them nonetheless.
I do not know whether it bears repeating that I am very lonely.
I am so self-conscious that I worry about being boring even on my private blog, of which two people know and at best one reads. I wish I had never told anyone about it, but then I would never write. I dream that someday people will flock here from every corner of the internet and exclaim with wonder over my amazing prose. So clear! So eloquent! His emotions spill into us like the sweet wine of life. I don't know why I bother with such fantasies, or why I mock myself for having them, or why I am unable to let go of them once the cycle has run.
Let me tell you about my soup.
Into a pot of boiling water I put half a package of Chinese noodles, one quarter of a package of tofu, one half of a package of shiitake mushrooms, and two green onions. I season this with red and black pepper, sea salt, and basil, and cook for five minutes. The tofu and mushrooms are bland; the noodles too. Even the onions hardly have any flavor. I would cook it longer, but the noodles will overcook. I would cook the noodles separately, but I am lazy.
Adair called today to make plans. She has said she would call back, but she has not. I will be going to bed soon. I hope she doesn't wake me up.
As I suspected, I bore myself and anyone whose time has been wasted reading this with mundanities. I retire.
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