PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I feel spastic! It's like being sick left all these -oh what the fuck are those things that bounce around under microscopes, not ions, atoms? microns? nucleuses? dust motes? I enjoyed science in a reserved sort of way, I'm sorry, anyway, like all these things that normally jitter & jive on a daily basis but they just got stuck in suspended motion while I was playing Woman Hacking Lung for my next Oscar. Good god, I am watching SKATING on tv. SKATING. I am a middle-aged woman. This has got to go. TRIPLE LUTZ THIS CBS! Forensic Files, you are my long-lost friend.
Anyway.
I was sayin'.
Right now I feel all supercalifragilistic freakadoo hepped up like I've done coffee, shots of espresso, and snorted a big ol' snout of cocaine, not that I know what that's like, but I can imagine, and there was that time in college when this guy Martin did some and he was all Muhammed-Ali-esque and couldn't stop bouncing around on the balls of his feet. Like, right now, if I started talking, I wouldn't stop! And all the atoms and ions and nuclei and molecules - MOLECULES - that was the word we were searching for - have been unfrozen & they're making up for lost time. And it's all because the EVIL FOG OF COUGH and COLD has been lifted! I think! Other people seem to think, in an encouraging way, that it's a cold that lingers for months. Well, that's because they choose to believe it. I choose to believe I'm cured. OH Dear it's a wounded dog on Forensic Files who saw his owners get killed. And the dog just died. This is too much in the other direction. PRINCESS BRIDE! You killed my father, prepare to die. I tell ya. Bruce, it's more like THREE HUNDRED-57 channels and nothin's on. This is why the DVR is the awesomest thing EVER because it records what I want to watch, and it's like having my own personal cable channel, right there, accessible.
Now, if only I could get Polly to retrieve me some chinese take-out, we'd be cookin' with gas.

Back to knitting. The Holiday Shardigan WILL be done - maybe tonight! I expect I will topple forward like a wind-up robot on its last key-click in about an hour, and all of this manic energy will be a distant memory. But it's the weekend, and life is improving. Minute by minute, channel by channel. Stitch. By. Stitch.