It's March. Budda-buddump, chsssh.

It's March.  It's raining outside, and hovering around forty degrees.  It's sixty-one degrees in my bear cave, which is comfortable to me.  The cat is sound asleep on the bed.  It would be nice if my truck would start, but she won't, because the wiring harness has a hard-to-track-down open circuit somewhere, and she's parked in the mud, which just makes it that much more fun.  The guy who was supposed to come and look at the wiring a couple days ago is MIA, possibly drunk somewhere, or wrapped up with some female, or hopefully not in a bad situation...

The furnace quit functioning today, or the pilot went out anyway, and there was about a quarter inch of dust in the filters, which can't be good at any rate, and copious dust bunnies on the floor around the outer casing.  That was today's excitement, and now that it's taken care of, I can sit back, smoke cigarettes, and drink Canada Dry till I get sleepy.  I really don't feel like ranting about the sorry-ass state of socio-political bullshit right now.  I'm just not in the mood for it.

...Maybe I'll write a fan-letter to Sarah Silverman.  She's cute and funny, and she could come and pee in my bed anytime.  She probably wouldn't, since I'm not famous, but she would be welcome none the less.  ...Or maybe I'll write a fan-letter to Jewel Staite, just to tell her she's pretty, you know.  Or maybe I'll write one to Kate Micucci...   Or maybe not.  The only famous female who ever answered my fanmail was The Great Kat, and she might rape me in a violent manner, which probably would be unpleasant, although one can not know for certain what may happen unless & until it actually happens.... (Or doesn't.)