Hello to all retired movie critics, Belgian clocks that have never worked, pipe-cleaner fanatics, and taxi drivers marooned on desert islands.
I’ve been in Solitary Confinement for about two months now. (See earlier blog entries.) Not actual solitary confinement– how would that be possible? They wouldn’t give me a computer and it’d be hard to type in a straitjacket. Anyways, having nothing to do all day, from the long time it takes to drag myself out of bed to the long time it takes to fall asleep, trying to calm my stir-crazy nerves with thoughts of David Eddings books, for some reason, I have fallen into a kind of circle of torture that involves a cold basement, a heater, and a baseball game on my PS2. Let me explain. I’ll play for awhile on the baseball game, doing ‘career-mode’, which involves my seven foot tall pitcher I’ve named Gwendolyn Hersprig, and when I’m tired of resetting every time I let in a run, I’ll migrate to the basement to stare at word files and wait for the little orange ‘1’ to appear at the top of the screen, which means somebody has commented/followed/liked my blog. But my basement is usually very cold. It’s a delicate balance to remain not too hot and not too cold down there– wearing a sweater means I get way too hot with the heater blowing under my feet, but not wearing a sweater means the top half of me is cold while the bottom half is in severe danger of catching fire. By the time a few hours have slipped away and my eye has begun twitching from staring at the computer, and my socks have reached the temperature of a well-cooked turkey, (I rest my feet on the heater as I sit there), the circle of torture has been completed: I have tired of video games, my eyes have turned the unhealthy, glazed-red of a hungry vampire, and my feet have long passed toasty and moved into an oven-feeling. When the circle is completed, it’s time to lug the heater back up the stairs and play video games again.
On the outside, miraculously, the effects of the circle of torture don’t show. It’s all on the inside. I imagine twenty years from now I’ll have moments where my eyes glaze and I murmur to nothing about ‘Gwendolyn Hersprig and cooking socks and I’ve been staring too long at the computer oh my’.
No need to worry, though. I’m still reasonably sane. I’m actually sort of happy in my little circle– I get blogging done, I get some writing done, and my career pitcher in MLB 07 is on his way to getting twenty wins this season. However, a part of me wishes I still had that ‘outside world’ part of my life, where there are human beings and such. I’ve still got my friends and the Knights, at least, and my army of talking robots. Heh, I’m kidding.
Anyway, sigh. Where has all the light-heartedness gone? It’ll be back, eventually I suppose. For now, I hope you enjoy the moody half-mocking narratives of Onceabasementdog… which is me, of course. Imagine if my parents had actually named me that? Wow, I’d have some words for them. Maybe I’d go by Once, or B-Dog, or something, if that was the case. Yo, it’s B-Dog. No, I don’t think I’d get away with that, not the white girl in the Big Bang Theory t-shirt… Once would be cool, though. I’ll let my talking robots know that I want to be called that from now on.
Yours sincerely insincerely, Onceabasementdog.