It’s dreary outside, but I’m huddled against the breeze that is so malicious against my lizard-blood anyway. Nothing like natural (dim) light and freezing your arse off to get the blood pumping, the creativity flowing.

Well, maybe not the last part.

I could blame the internet on my lack of progress with certain projects, but honestly, that would be like saying the sky is falling, and an aeroplane is the cause of such a travesty. They’re distantly related, but not concurrent.

.

My least favourite place in the world is the laundromat. I manage to look like a brooding young hipster with my old laptop and camo-coloured messenger bag, but it doesn’t stop the loudness of the other people using the building. Or hell, even the loudness of the machines.

But the worst thing about the Palace of Clean Laundry is the children who run around screaming like banshees and knocking into things. They think they run this mechanical vorpal pit, so they make us all deal with their animalistic behavior.

And me without my Boomstick.

No, I do not wish ill upon these children. In fact, I hope they will grow up strong and healthy, so that they may have a long life ahead of them. After all, how else are they to learn of the drudgery of life, and suffer through another batch of children fresh off of William Golding’s island, running amock through the next generation of laundromats, wishing they had a shotgun for the children or themselves?

This wish for their health doesn’t stop me from glaring at them when they creep up under the table and try to haul down my precious computer by the power cord. And it doesn’t stop me from kicking at their head with a low growl.

The possibility of incarceration stops me from the latter, and their parents from the former.

(damn those parents, ruining all my fun.)