I went to the liquor store.

All is right with the world. For now.

Dictionary.com word of the day:

A twofer that best describes me

voluptuary \vuh-LUHP-choo-er-ee\ , noun:
1. A person devoted to luxury and the gratification of sensual appetites; a sensualist.
adjective:
1. Of, pertaining to, or characterized by preoccupation with luxury and sensual pleasure.

gadabout \GAD-uh-bout\ , noun:
1. Someone who roams about in search of amusement or social activity.

Epitaph

The Body of B. Franklin
         Printer
Like the Cover of an Old Book,
   It's Contents Torn Out
   And
Stripped of it's Lettering and Gilding,
   Lies Here
   Food for Worms.
But the Work shall not be Lost,
For it Will as He Believed
   Appear Once More
In a New and more Elegant Edition
   Revised and Corrected
       By the Author.

                     Benjamin Franklin

I think I had a dream about getting drunk.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

"Hymn to Life" - Nazim Hikmet

The hair falling on your forehead
suddenly lifted.
Suddenly something stirred on the ground.
The trees are whispering
in the dark.
Your bare arms will be cold.

Far off
where we can't see,
the moon must be rising.
It hasn't reached us yet,
slipping through the leaves
to light up your shoulder.
But I know
a wind comes up with the moon.
The trees are whispering.
Your bare arms will be cold.

From above,
from the branches lost in the dark,
something dropped at your feet.
You moved closer to me.
Under my hand your bare flesh is like the fuzzy skin of a fruit.
Neither a song of the heart nor "common sense"-
before the trees, birds, and insects,
my hand on my wife's flesh
is thinking.
Tonight my hand
can't read or write.
Neither loving nor unloving...
It's the tongue of a leopard at a spring,
a grape leaf,
a wolf's paw.
To move, breathe, eat, drink.
My hand is like a seed
splitting open underground.
Neither a song of the heart nor "common sense",
neither loving nor unloving.
My hand thinking on my wife's flesh
is the hand of the first man.
Like a root that finds water underground,
it says to me:
"To eat, drink, cold, hot, struggle, smell, color-
not to live in order to die
but to die to live..."

And now
as red female hair blows across my face,
as something stirs on the ground,
as the trees whisper in the dark,
and as the moon rises far off
where we can't see,
my hand on my wife's flesh
before the trees, birds, and insects,
I want the right of life,
of the leopard at the spring, of the seed splitting open-
I want the right of the first man.

"I Am Vertical" - Sylvia Plath

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

"Death Be Not Proud" - John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

I forget which website I nicked this from.

Zabaan-e yaar-e mun Turkie, wa mun Turkie nami daanum,
Che khush boodi agar boodi zabaanash dar dahanay mun.

My beloved speaks Turkish, and Turkish I do not know,
How I wish if her tongue would have been in my mouth.

I had a dream about her.

Everything in her house was pink. The chairs looked comfy, but they were hard on my butt, so I sat on the fluffy carpet instead. Closer inspection revealed peeling paint on the walls and that her home was not as luxurious as I initially thought when I first stepped inside. I take that to mean that appearances are deceiving, and that she is not who she pretends to be. Or maybe the dream was directed at me. I don't know.

Oh, and an open bottle of pink nail polish on the third step of a pink carpeted stairway.