It’s only day three of the lockout, and my grip on sanity’s starting to slip.
I’ve been dreaming that Anders Lindback’s goal posts already think I’m crazy. When they realize I’ve been talking to the blue line – it has opinions, you know – well, someone ought to listen to it, right? It may only be a dream, but still. I don’t want to be rude or anything.
So long as the empty seats don’t start yelling at me again, I think I’ll be okay.
When I get home, I may have to start organizing things again. I’ve resorted to sorting my crayons alphabetically by name in order to pass the time in the evenings. Soon, I may have to go after my fingerpaints to do the same. My books are already color-coded. Who knows what the neighbor’s cats must think of me.
If this keeps up, I may need to go to Canada. They’re all crazy there, anyways, so no one will notice one more crazy person. And if that person ends up babbling incoherently in Swedish so that only the Swedish Chef can understand, well, I probably won’t be the only one.
