Meatspace, Headspace, it's all good

My week has been divided neatly into two parts. Not temporally, but experientially.
One part is what Neal Stephenson likes to call "meatspace". This is what I have been doing, which is what I have, technically, been doing. The other is headspace, which ought to be self-explanatory
Meatspace Rachel: TypingtypingtypingtypingtypingTEAtypingTEAtypingTEATEATEAtyping
Headspace Rachel:
MusicmusicmusicmusicSEXSEXSEXmusicSEXmusicmusicSEXSEXSEXSEXSEXmusicSEX
The typing part is for Mark Bernstein. I'm FINALLY (almost) done with the bloody insurance booklet, and it's a good thing too, because Mark hadababyit'saboy.
The music and sex part? It started with a dream I had. About a threesome. With John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Went on to think about Robert Plant and his shrieks--according to juliadactyl on an early entry, "like he's having the best orgasm of his life."
It went on to splinter, of course. I am now able to listen to music without thinking about sex, and I am now able to think about sex without listening to music. Except that it's now either one or the other, and so, when Mom commanded me to turn off the radio while I was driving because it was distracting me, I got even more distracted by the elaborate bondage fantasy I was busy constructing in my head.

( Cut for personal musings on sexuality )

Anyway, I'm going to hang out with Lannon tomorrow. That's going to be excellent.