Concentration Impaired

Woke from an awful nightmare. I was attempting to fly home from out west somewhere. The plane was jampacked, delayed and EVERYONE had more carry on bags than sense. We kept landing in odd small towns across the south, taking on more and more passengers and their copious carry ons. Finally, we we had one last stop before Boston. It was in Shaoyang which had somehow relocated from China to Georgia, just south of Macon (‘the fuck?!). The Boeing 747-8 pulled up just outside the university where we were to pick up the 25 people who wanted to board.
If we'd taken on all those peeps, the flight would’ve been SRO—like the Red Line during rush hour. I’d had enough. I de-planed, went up to the airline employee manning the desk and started screaming at her ‘There are just two available seats. That’s it. No more!’ She started sputtering but I’d already stomped off to reclaim my seat.

And then I woke up. I’d have loved some resolution—ya know, getting home safely to my Amazing Bob—but there was no damn way that I was gonna go back to sleep and risk resuming that endless, crowded, mega-disorganized, awful flight.
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I love being waylaid in grocery lines. Where else will I learn the solidly important news that
Cosby’s now accused of having his son murdered. What? Being a serial rapist wasn’t enough?

Serial? Cereal? Pudding rapist? EWWWWWWWW!
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Determined to burn out this cold, I took an epic trike ride on Monday. Not my original intention BUT I got on that baby, started flying and couldn’t stop. Finally The Amazing Bob’s words started ringing in my ears like some chant offered up by a thousand Tibetan monks all at once—Remember, you have to get home too. Don’t ride so far that you can’t get back.

Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, OK, OK already!

Not sure how many miles I went but was gone an hour and 45 minutes. I’ve tried checking my distance via Google maps before. It’s great if you’re taking direct routes but, if you curly cue around a few neighborhoods or so, well, the distance/mapping function kind of breaks down.

So, GREAT ride and I think I really did burn out more/most of this rat bastard cold!
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On Twitter, I occasionally get a spate of porn dolls and babes who’re clearly looking to attract customers or, at least, a bit of low rent Warhol-ish fame.

 Call Me Addi—who is she? She’s NOT the typical painted, bikini clad, pretty girl trying to look like some come-hither, bad girl type. Is she a fledgling actress or comedian looking to stoke some play, spark some buzz? Is she an insecure college girl who's confused Twitter popularity with reality? Dunno but I don’t need to follow her feed.

I also get a lot of followers who’re in bands (like The Cringe), talking up their recent record, gig or whatever.

This is my Twitter intro snippet:
Painting, sculpting, story telling, cat attracting deaf broad.

What part of deaf are these folks missing? Your band may be the second coming of the Beatles—můj přítel, I’ll never know it. I am not the fan/buyer/groupie you are looking for.

The bands and strumpets tend to unfollow when I don't follow back. Everyone's fishing for customers on Twitter. Why am I on Twitter? It's Facebook for the short attention span crowd. Yep, I'm a card carrying member the Concentration Impaired Club.