Saturday, August 21, 2010


Lamott-- says not to make any decisions after nine thirty pm.

Good advice.

It's five am after a hectic night at the theatre/followed by forty five minutes at the aggressive bar/the one that coughs the last call onto your neck in a ball/a wad/of molten flem.

As soon as the friends turned the corner towards their Subaru I was given permission by friend boy to, how do you say? Break, the levies?

It didn't take as long as I thought. A few hours had blistered over the burns, I had enough clarity from God, or my dead brother to gather that worse things had happened, and it was starting to rain, lightly, which always puts things into perspective.

I was a bit shaken up by a run in with some of my sperm donor's trixies. But, it is well past nine thirty pm. And I haven't decided whether or not this is the place to disclose the particulars. I was quite shaken up. Caught off guard. Robbed of my knees.

Don't worry, between the chat with paper girl in the dressing room, and the ride home with friend boy, it's totally purged, and licked in the wounds.

We even sat in the parked car for a good twenty five discussing the preposterous nature of the kindle, truly at a loss as to how that device could ever be an improvement on anything.

At this point the rain was poring, and we had no choice but to run, to streak through the hail, pleading and soaking forgiveness from Anne.

Split a bottle of raspberry lambic and popped in a hilarious and surprisingly heartfelt DVD, something pocketed from the back room of Starbucks, something starring that Paige chick, shhh! This is a public forum.

Now we have only the sound of my typing, the sleepy gurgles of a friend boy who admits he will never completely understand, the light patter of an early morning rain meeting the tin shell of our air conditioner.

I think it's safe to say we can call it a night.

More later,
Skin and Toast

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