DST is not healthy for Ancodias and other living things

You bastards. I *mean* it—you bureaucratic pack of ass munches.

You have taken away my sunset as I go to my evening seminar class. You People suck; that was *my* sunset. Jerks. And you’ve robbed me of an extra hour of sleep (or typing, rather). That alone is worthy of a beating. C’mere.

Grr.

I wish that I were a talented enough writer to describe how wonderful it was to see the sun setting as I walked down the tree-covered sidewalk to class; it’s one of those things that either gets taken for granted, or gets filed away under ‘things I will some day get around to really doing justice to by writing about with Style and Flair’.

Well, now I can watch it set through a window. Whee.

Butsoanyway.

I am doing the ‘read and regurgitate’ thing today, and taking (undeserved) time off to whine about it. As usual. I was working late last night, and fell asleep in my living room with the television on low, listening to the radio. I think it was the radio that did it; they must have had a Béla Bartók marathon in honour of his recent birthday or something, but I had a really bizarre dream in which I was married to Béla Bartók, and had brought home five hundred tiny turtles (with rounded shells, not the dinky flat shells) to give to people in a study I was conducting (‘thank you for your participation; here—have a turtle!’). The box in which they were being contained broke, and I was running all over the house trying to pick up turtles and put them in bowls and stuff before Squooshable footballed (pawballed?) them off into Parts Unknown. And before Béla got home; he had phoned to say that he was on his way when the box broke. There were turtles EVERYWHERE, and Squoosh was running himself silly trying to give every single one of them a good smack!

Squoosh was having a blast, by the way.

When I woke up, I honestly looked around for a second for turtles. Sheesh.

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