Night time drive ...

What do you do when you need to get away from it all?

Sometimes when nothing else works, burning fuel on a night time lone ride does the trick. Like cool-aid. Driving around with no destination, racing where there's a speed limit, winding down the front windows to feel the breeze coming in, and tuning up the radio full blast. Cruising along the stopgap highway with the rest of the miserable nocturnal creatures. Looking for redemption, or a temporary relief from a certain ache. The further the distance, the longer the return. Sometimes just far enough for the tears to stop.

Sometimes it was a form of self-punishment: driving nowhere just to see how fast I could make the gas sign blink on a road I consciously know the next gas station is not near enough; or navigate recklesly to see how far the hands of God will keep me from crashing. Like playing with fire. Sometimes it was a form of punishment for the person who caused it: the thought of him worrying sick and angry at me for putting myself at risk, is like a balm to a miserable soul. Like knowing at least someone cared.

I know. I'm a little sick psycho sometimes. Especially when I'm hurt.
 

night rider in her faithful jazz

Or, maybe I should write that in PAST TENSE, all of them, because lately I find myself hardly doing that anymore. I got delightfully distracted enough to find my way home safe and sound day by day, without detouring.

Oh I doubt that would stop altogether, after all, habits die hard. There's still the urge.

Now I just do it for different reasons: to floor the restlessness or indecision caused by a few important matters that need settling. And I hope there will come a time when I don't have to take the night time ride to nowhere alone anymore.

Will this peace settle at last? God help me.

p/s: Oh great. Why am I feeling mellow all of a sudden?

Respite Session: The Single Ms Plural ...

[Note: I have not been myself lately. I've been somebody else... ]

Ok if you're so smart, then riddle me this:

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes;
But the plural of ox should be oxen not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
But the plural of house is houses, not hice.
If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?

If I spoke of my foot and showed you my feet,
When I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

If the singular is this, and the plural is these,
Why shouldn't the plural of kiss be kese?
Then one may be that, and three would be those,
Yet the plural of hat would never be hose.

Gnat would be gnose and pat would be pose,
And likewise the plural of rat would be rose.

Now if mouse in the plural should be, and is, mice,
Then house in the plural, of course, should be hice,
And grouse should be grice and spouse should be spice
And by the same token should blouse become blice.

And consider the goose with its plural of geese;
Then a double caboose should be called a cabeese,
And noose should be neese and moose should be meese
And if mama's papoose should be twins, it's papeese.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.
So plurals in English, I think you'll agree,
Are indeed very tricky--singularly.

- Author(s) Unknown. 

I snatched this from Google but have adopted it as mine since...

Suspension of activity. Watch it watch it. 
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