Tiredly Busy, Busily Tired

Today has been odd since the very beginning. I remember waking up this morning in a haze. Snow was falling outside my window, which seemed only a continuation of the very odd dreams I experienced during the night, of which I cannot relate because I cannot remember an iota about them except that they were, in fact, odd. I dragged myself to the bathroom and, upon looking at myself and my bloodshot zombie eyes in the mirror, surmised that staying up until 2 a.m. reading One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest had been a rather poor decision on my part, despite the fact that I had been extremely pleased with the overall quality of the book. However, it seems to me that nowadays I am more and more prone to making such decisions wherein I choose the pleasure of reading over the strange ecstasies of a normal REM cycle.

However, though I took my waking slow (see Theodore Roetke's "The Waking") I soon managed to encourage myself to shake off somewhat the residual fatigue of oblivion and put myself to work being useful in some way. And not just in some way, of course; in the way, the best way of being useful, as far as I am concerned: Making food.

In fact, I become so rapt with making food for dinner and so on that I completely forgot to have breakfast until around 2:00 p.m. Some might argue and say I had lunch then, but I have to disagree because, after all, who has Cheerios for lunch? Not I, said the pig.

Anyway, today I made a whole slew of food, both for dinner tonight and for Sunday when we shall be having family over for dinner. I, first of all, made dinner rolls. About five dozen, in fact. Turned out nicely. Then I made two pans of sour cream potatoes. Also turned out nicely (I know because we had three-quarters of a pan for dinner tonight, along with cheeseburgers, which I made as well). Then I made deviled eggs, which were spectacular. I kept picking in them up until dinner, and then I had some more. By the way, when will someone invent angeled eggs?

In addition, I did a load of laundry and read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. It was good, but certainly odd. And I would know, of course, because I felt very odd myself, this entire day. I told you that I shook off the tiredness with which I awoke, but that is more or less a lie. Today was permeated with haziness and awake-walking. I am surprised I did not lose a finger or two as I was slicing eggs because, to tell the truth, I am not exactly sure I knew what I was doing. However, I still have all of my appendages, and dinner was great, even if I can't remember how exactly I got here.