Emptying my empty head

Hey all, whoever you may be at this point.
It's been a few days and my head's feeling a bit cluttered with too much empty space so I figured that meant it was time for me to inject this void into a series of sentences to see what happens. I had planned on sitting down to do this last night, but Mel monopolized the computer for longer than it would take a blind man to teach a deaf man how to change a flat tire. and for those of you who remember me with my sticker-bright laptop from school, it's now 'the most expensive paperweight' i own (citation attributed to Mickey F., the epigramaster) since Mel's gerbil somehow clotted a thick bunch of its fur in the fan outlet. This happened some weeks ago and I didn't have insurance on it because who needs insurance on a laptop when your sister's gerbil has a gnaw-proof cage? But I'm getting bitter, so moving on...
She was on the computer last night forever, thrilled about not having to do anything today except go to a light afternoon practice since her and her relay team smoked the best offerings of four counties (Botetourt, Craig, Montgomery and Franklin, all hanging their heads in unlaurelled shame) on Saturday and their coach thinks they should keep their 'glutes loose' as she apparently says.
I've seen this woman maybe five times since Mel's been on the team and she's got the chassis of sterile Chevy (and by that I mean she's slim as steamed okra but nowhere near as limp) but the eyes of a drifter, like they search you for what you can offer in the shortest amount of time; when you're done providing for them they won't discard you like half-nibbled corncobs because they can use them for liquor distillation later. She's got that economical glint in her, pushing anything between her slender hands to the most efficient useful point. And yeah, I've thought hard about banging her, but that's for a different type of blog.
I guess keeping your glutes loose means sitting on them for as long as possible because Mel irritated the shit out of me last night jabbering away like a widowed magpie living in the tree across from a turkey buzzard, and the typing noise was even worse. I tried to watch TV, but it was public access, infomercials or dogooders in bad ties spluttering about salvation or Haiti. A basic buffet of misguided capitalism, though some of the public access shows were oddly enthralling in their lighting techniques and subject matter.
One was a guy in his 30s, dressed like a peasant from 19th century Russia, which is really just coarse shapeless garments spattered with mud; his face is what made it 19th century Russia, contorted into a scowl of agony and contempt when some offstage voice yelled 'TSAR!' like a battle cry. On the bottom right hand of the screen, in a childishly curly font, was written '19th Century Russian Peasant Contemplates Humanism.' The four minutes or so I spent on the channel were made up mainly of the 30ish dude's face going through a different series of faces, all generally based on pain or strife or poverty, and all changed when the offscreen voice yelled 'TSAR!' The lighting wasn't spectacular, but it captured the subtle differences in the guys face, because his faces were minute reconfigurations of the ones he'd just previously done, like he was testing the capacity and elasticity of a specific series of muscles in different areas of his face. I changed the channel after he dropped to his knees grinning and patted mud the color of straw, and probably with the same texture, around him as if burying himself slowly. This was after the voice shouted something unintelligible, but obviously different than 'TSAR;' maybe 'disputin' or 'gas proven,' I couldn't make it out.
But yeah, so that four second bit stuck in my head and gave me some weird dreams that I only remember in snippets, and only really when something not totally related to the dreams' subjects reminds me of them. Like when I was talking about Mel's coach earlier, I remembered, vaguely, me being chased by her around an asphalt track that surrounded all of Roanoke and we were giants and in some sort of contest. Then with the mud the color of straw, I remember, still vaguely, looking at a pot boiling over with it, covering the tile floor with a slippery yellowish goop. Then mom came in a started sweeping it with a straw broom, the kind you see next to pineboard porches where the rocking chairs are all missing at least one back slat, that melted into the goop.
Normally I don't remember my dreams, even in little bits like this. I think my head has too little to distract itself from itself. I promised mom I'd amble over to the unemployment office tomorrow to see what they might have to offer. She's been riding me like a roan through Indian country, and I can't very well buck her off without going to the place that makes me most skittish so I'm going. Tomorrow though. I've got my own agenda (even though MLK gave me an excuse today).
Welcome Matt out