“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his
punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
● O. Wilde
I’m not a Federer fan (clearly), but could we cease eulogizing the fellow?
No need to solicit his opinion about the Djoker-Rafa rivalry... he’s still a
legend. Have a little respect, hmm? Yes, he’s thirty-two or whatever, but he is
not yet dead, that’s the best that can be
said, he is not... Whoops, sorry; wandered into Spamalot for a moment. Bloody hell - I’ll have that looped in my
cranium for the remainder of the day.
For all that I violently deplore facebook, I’m addicted to twitter -
have I mentioned? (: I’m @legalruffian and @adreamabove. Anyway. One of my
friends forwarded this, and it’s so epically fantastic I had to pay it forward...
Rafa, Rafa, Rafa!
Today’s French Open Pros: Ferrer advanced. Serena advanced. Milos
advanced. Seems Radwanska will triumph (she’s on now).
Today’s French Open Cons: Federer advanced. But I suppose that’s to
be expected.
I have not even acknowledged Djokovic’s existence for the
tournament. Presume he still lives? Don’t care. I’ll deal with him later; or,
rather, Rafa will polish him off when the time comes. I suppose I’m only involved
tangentially.
Our gyms have not yet managed to emotionally navigate the concept of
air conditioning for the summer season, meaning I find myself utterly ensconced
in the residue of fat crying (sweat) roughly halfway through my run and have to
kind of awkwardly siphon the stuff off of me at random intervals. It’s not
quite as hellish as the Kissimmee gyms, wherein I find myself forced to ignore
propriety and decorum entirely and run in a sports bra to preclude the
possibility of fainting, but close. Not a fan. On a scale of one to Chip ‘n’
Dale, how nutty would I seem bringing my own fan in and aiming it directly at
me to preclude this result? Don’t answer that.
This bloke who lifts at the NS gym spotted me DT on Memorial Day and
bid hello. Somehow he knows my name and greets me with it every morning when we
encounter each other, which makes me feel a profound turd because I cannot for
the life of me remember (a) introducing myself, (b) when he started saying
hello, or most importantly (c) his bloody
name. People’s monikers just elude me in general. Unless I find the person
profoundly attractive and their name sears into my cranium, I meet someone,
chat with them, and at the end find myself thinking, “Oh, I’m sorry... did you
have a name?” The travails of the right-brained.
The Powers That Be (read: boss) have charged me with the task of
selecting a color for our redo of the Bar. Whoa. That means the end of my blog
post and the inception of investigating Tuscan colour schemes.
Talk about a random smattering of halfway-sensical rambles. I have
to clock some sleep at some point. Have
to.
