1. fancy pizza
2. read books in bed together for hours, legs all tangled to make enough space not to disturb a sleeping cat
The problem with cat ownership is that at any fluttering awake during the night Hilda will leap up from the bottom of my bed and climb all over me, butting her furry head into my face and making her hungry meow, which is unfortunately the most squawk-like of all meows, and then I will be wide awake at three o’clock in the morning writing really long sentences on the internet and mourning the loss of any gains and/or pride I had about getting to bed before midnight.
- Desire for and execution of potato salad
- Large-wheeled car playing very loud reggaeton, the sort of loud that I could feel on my bicycle when it passed me
- The Unique Thrift no longer has a sweater section
Tonight I did not behave, because when you are my age behaving means not having a haphazard sommersault contest and not having your neighbor suggest you be quieter, but hey, I had a really lovely evening.
It is early, or it feels early, and I am on the first off-peak metro north out of New Haven on a train that makes more stops than I want to but hey, a five dollar savings and who am I kidding, I like this train ride.
The conductor has two six inch braids in his beard, one at each corner of his mouth, and the train is not crowded. It is not early by commuter standards, only by mine.
I spent the night at my parents’ house last night, and this morning my father woke me before my alarm, which is a thing I knew would happen and made me grumpy but also relieved. I have only spent five or so nights at my parents’ in the past two years, and it is good to know how things are, the constants, even if it is only my father’s incredulity that it does not take me an hour to get out of the house.
But I got to the train station an unprecedented more than a half hour early, which left plenty of time to buy coffee and take an artsy ceiling and nostril shot, so there you go, good morning.
Hartford is the ugly little truth that stomps around in the brain of the American people, the perfect inversion of Silicon Valley, a place with almost 400 years of history and no future. It is ten years younger than Boston, but nobody takes guided tours of its cobblestone. Technically in the middle of a megalopolis, you can stand in Hartford’s center and feel utterly alone.
Sparks and I are drinking beer and eating cheese on the stoop while across the street four men of color are being searched by the cops for standing around in the park.
Nothing to start your goddamn day off like a man with no teeth telling you he likes a woman with big legs.