Here we are again at Monday.
As I sit here awaiting the entirely voluntary hellishness to which I subject myself (therapy) to begin I find myself realizing that once again I have failed to give any substantive thought to what I want to share for this lovely day of our lord Tim.
So I’ll just do what I always do and pull a fully half-assed clip directly out of my ass, which is what I do with every commitment I take a viciously ambivalent approach to.
It’s a good message though, ’tis.
Love is not born fully formed. It grows, over time.
There’s that done. What else? Oh yes. It’s been two weeks without a column shared.
That’s not good.
Here are the two most recent:
That second one is disappointingly riddled with typos and clumsy metaphor. I polished it a bit and resubmitted Friday but the editor has been off Fridays for some time and I’m sure it was a matter of miscommunication with the stand-in editor who is one of my fellow reporters and it’s fine.
It’s really fine.
I’m not stuck on the unchangeable failure of my column in any way at all.
I spent this past Saturday morning in typical summer Saturday morning fashion. Reconnoitering the farmers market and drinking coffee at the Arbor.
About halfway through my reading session my friend Laurie Sweet texted and said she’d always wanted to go to the Arbor. So I told her to get her happy ass on down there and hang with me.
Which she did.
When I was in school she and my aunt used to dress up as these two obnoxious old ladies and bring treats to my cousin’s class near the end of the school year.
She still has the picture and it makes me smile. Every damn time.
I love that shit. Laurie’s on the right in the blue dress. My aunt must have like six thousand bags shoved in the ass of them white Levis. It’s the best thing ever.
Love ya, bitch.