Red Harrrr

Stream-of-consciousness
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have red hair.
Most people love it.
The Cat? He hates it. But, whatever. As if guys know what look good, MECECTERA (une blague pour les francophones).

It's a shame that my eyebrows don't match. Haha, should colour them in with a texta.

I made a pair of shorts* from an old pair of jeans. I got a nasty scratch in the meantime.

I love The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. As if I need an excuse.

Virginia Woolf, on just-shot pheasants: "Their claws gripped tightly, though they gripped nothing" (The Shooting Party, 1938)

A character in the Reid Library at UWA:
Shuffle, Shuffle, Shuffle. The tired old skin he wore like a clock, jowls draping languid over his coloured overcoat. (I lie, it's actually off-yellow like an oeuf mure).

I just finished the [A] matrix for Assignment 12 for CIVL3110. Hopefully it's correct. Ahhh, the benefits of excel.

I'm hungry, though I just ate.

Perhaps it is better to ignore than be too eager. Here he comes again, the coat-man, shuffling like some man, Dickensen.

The Cat told me an awful goings between a friend and the ex-lover of the friend. Spiteful actions. One can not help being hurtful after a break-up, or whatever you wish to call it since it's been ongoing for a year and then some. Spite does not have to be gratuitous.

It depends on how you feel.

I wonder if he hates me?

Maybe, but it's probably more melancholy.

Or perhaps he sees things as they are (in whose reality this occurs, I am not sure.)

I will have to work out new clothing for new harrrr. Aus, Ein, Aus, Ein.


*pinned.