Last night, I disguised myself in the body of Arnold Schwartzenegger to snoop around in the house of rich suburban people. i discovered that they belonged to a weird Xtian sect. In the kitchen, over the sink, was one of those mottoes in quaint lettering on wood, all about how the wife had to be 'chaste' and avoid contact with men as much as possible. There was a list of workmen, etc. that wives were allowed to speak to alone, but only in emergencies. Even in my Terminator guise, this shocked me, and I fled through the garden, getting wet in the process, as a sprinkler was on.
I'm still depressed that I couldn't summon the courage to go to Comiket. Soooo fucking feeble. I don't even have the excuse of it being hot. I just find it ever harder to face large groups, and was scared I'd have a problem getting to use the lift at the ICA, but hauling myself up (and down!) the stairs would be even more embarrassing, etc. etc. etc.My bad.
The maddening noise of the contractors, not to mention their lumbering around right outside the windows,now, succeeded in chasing me out for a while today, anyhow.
R Next Door came in to look for skull-patterned tights on my PC. When she left, she said. 'I don't know ven I see you again. Maybe zis veek I die of a heart attack.' She claims not to have slept since last Monday.