March 3: a day of bad smells.

At work: reciprocating saw + PVC pipe = “someone’s getting a perm”-type awfulness.
Later: rubber cement (which I didn’t mind all that much, actually, but did make me a little dizzy).
Later still: the perm returns.
And after that: perm + rubber cement.
Well after that, inside my car, after having the front bumper replaced: an artificial fruit scent, based on a fruit that has never existed, and if it did exist, would be inedible.

March 3: fraught with damp and freezing wind that turned my fingers into vague stinging clouds.

Stupid resurgence of winter.
Every week this happens.
There’s a taunting balmy day, and then back into the frigid depths.
Bah.

March 3: ate some fudge ripple ice cream.

I think I’m developing a lactose intolerance.
Or maybe just a fudge ripple intolerance.

March 3: auditorily, a split decision.

Pointless roaring blower fan above my head, rendering conversation basically impossible for the better part of eight hours.
It’s like this all winter.
I’ve probably lost very specific frequencies of hearing, thanks to the fan.
However: the new Tim Hecker CD is a lovely series of wooshing digital calms and swells.
Except when it’s too loud.
Which is often.
Because of the stupid fan.

March 3: what did I see?

My car, clean and shiny.
The word “paralipsis” for the first time.
Cardboard furniture.

That last bit seemed like a haiku, but wasn’t.