One hour twenty minutes in counting; by the way, it's snowing

I love what you’re doing with your hair. I just heard someone in the office next door say this. What could a person who doesn’t know you well really mean by it?

The you’re-so-cool factor when a person complains about the stupidity of others only goes so far: a fingernail’s width as it scrapes across a block of cheese, cheese clogging underneath the nail. There is a group who come together outside the office next to mine and complain in such a way. Often I shut my door. People do stupid things; so it goes. Venting, I comprehend; making it the constant in the equation makes Jill a fast tumbler down golden hills.

Tumbler!—as in a drinking glass without a handle or stem. I tried with empty tongue-tip to come up with this word while working at a poem a few days ago. I had also considered complaining about my office neighbors a few days ago (o bad irony…bad, punish me with fists!—no, no, don’t now—I’m not into that, spank me) but didn’t. I guess complaining about my office neighbors and thus doing what I chide them for was my access to this word. Probably, like most things, this transfers to other situations, like doing unto others as you would like done unto you, even though you may not be done unto as kindly until your carriage gets cross-country and then some. At the crossroads are deer with devil-horns and pats for the back.

I love what you’re doing with your hair, all of you out there.