I swear, I've become a robot, a Pavlovian automaton. Brigitte gets in the shower: quick, make her her scotch and coke. Pick guitar up. Play blues tune, serenade. Wait while she lets her hair settle, then start again while the hair dryer is going. Crank it up to override dryer noise.
Soap time. Lie down and pretend to read while watching Bold and The Restless Robots. Want to comment; comments not appreciated. Shut the fuck up.
SATURDAY. My MOST PAVLOVIAN RESPONSE.
MUST
COOK.
Must stand in kitchen for at least four hours straight. Must drink beer. Must watch "Simply Ming" or some other PBS cooking show.
MUST.
I am currently rudderless, as Brigitte is gone to some Bar Mitzvah, we're driving to Lac Brôme this evening and I have NO FOOD PROJECTS.
Jesus Christ, I have to invent one. The bell is ringing, I'm slavering, someone is turning my on and off switch on and off, on-and-off. ON OFF. ON OFF.
ON
OFF
I must respond. Tell me what I must do!
Ah shit, maybe I'll smoke some dope instead.
Just kidding.
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