Slow strand of nothing

Cass is back in Troy, and I'll remain here riding the local rails, ducking through the tunnels, beating out the rats and pigeons to the leftover pretzels. Hmm. It's Sunday, and usually this means no news. There was another race in the park--I think this one was called race for the cure or something like that, and for some reason, it didn't pique my ire and therefore there will be no exploding angry entry this week on hating marathon runners or hating on anyone, period.

We're usually nice folks, me and Cass. Sure, I beat my dog and reshelve the dirty filthy adult Roald Dahl books in the chidren's section, but that doesn't mean I don't have my own moments of sensitivity. I, Tiresias, am sometimes known for great gestures of magnanimity, and this time, it will manifest itself in one entire entry that says nothing bad about anyone, not even the girl who walks around with synthetic stretch fiber camel-toe and flimsy shirts that show off brown aureolae, not even the Indian asshole in this building with the asshole dogs and the drawling British accent who wants money from me (long, long story, having to do with a sublet that turned into a lease agreement with the landlord), not even, my friends, our dear esteemed president, who has earned his spot in hell for sure.

It was a beautiful day today. Gorgeous, really. Um, exciting U.S. Open match on right now. Got spinach for dinner. May even watch television tonight.

Okay, so maybe not today. But I'm making the effort, just not, I guess, able to do it here.