In my bed, sediment

I have so many options.

How far do I want to drive?

The lady in DC... she and I will meet tomorrow night, and she gives off those giddy schoolgirl waves, she wants to meet someone smart and fun and quirky. We'll meet at the same place Fawn and I met.

But she's not The One. Not yet.

Saturday, I'll be in Bethesda at the same place I was last winter with a vibrant, sparkling woman I thought might be The One. She wasn't, and the woman on Saturday won't be The One, either.

Never mind that I ditched the whole concept of The One, unless I might be able to franchise it or something.

But the brown-eyed elegant blonde in Manhattan has been joined by a red-haired, brown-eyed, soulful woman in Manhattan. Who likes me, but is overworked.

Manhattan.

Manhattan.

Why the fuck are such women not HERE?

Here, I have a fleet of overweight, immature women with neuroses at my disposal. Don't get me wrong... neurosis can be attractive or even appealing, but when it's coupled with the Prince Charming Complex, it's a good reason to move to the sticks.

I already live in the sticks.

I chose too oppressive a water filter, by the way. The old one (rated at six months and 5 microns) lasted two weeks. The new one, rated at 2 microns, has lasted 4 days. I turned on the shower, and it had substantially lower pressure than a good cat piss (as observed from a distance). Went down to the basement, dripping from an unfulfilling shower, flipped the filter to BYPASS, and suddenty there was much water.

And it was good.

I need to go back to the cheap filters.

I ain't drinkin' that shit or washing my clothes, just brushing my teeth with it.

You have to pick your battles. Water pressure, or cider. You choose.

Every day.

Harpsichordist, I adore you.

Janet, I can picture you in my bed. The flannel sheets and pillowcases are cleaner (now) than they've been in months.