Really? Shit storms? The music's just barely muffling the undulating pulse of raindrops outside, and Peter Bjorn and John don't exactly wail on the guitars. Why is it this loud? It sounds like the window's open. It's not, but there's still that incessant torrent of noise coming from it; watering falling heavy onto wood, onto metal, into pools of its depressing self. Fuck!
I'm wearing sweatpants and my shins are cold because the ankles don't cinch off. That's because they're warm-ups. Ughh. What happened to spring. The window next to my desk has the shutters drawn; it's not much of a view anyway. But through the patio doors across the room the wind's whipping the ferns and bushes and the trees and tree leaves around in an awful fury. It's the kind of storm that would put the fear of the gods into the ancient Greeks; almighty and omnipotent. I remember reading a few months back about scientist predicting a super-storm coming this year. A once in a century storm, of biblical magnitude. The last one reported saw rain for forty days. Rain water ran like rivers through the streets of Central Valley towns. It's throwing itself at the windows in sheets now. This is miserable.
[time for wii]
