Maybe its the rain.
And then came the flood.
There we were, tottering out of the mall toting the recently procured, long-awaited copy of Eddie Izzard's Glorious, when out-of-doors proved to be epically wet, of a wetness worthy of the Flood of the Lord, or the Overflowing Toilet of the Heavens.
Those of you in the East do not understand. Truly. You there (you! there!) may flood, down there on the floodplain, but not like Texas floods. You flood because you are near an ocean, and when the ocean gets too close to your house, it is called Flooding. In Texas, there is no ocean. There is no ocean for the water to go back to. There is Highway 410 for it to go to, and sit, and sit, and sit eight inches deep while the smaller, more Japanese of the cars about you choke up and die in the ever-rising mire. Roads literally close, all about you, as the way back to your home becomes a Cretan maze, full of things like washed out roads, flooding crevaces, deadened vehicles laying about like landmines, and small, wet animals. And minotaurs.
"Dammit," said we, "how will we, and Eddie Izzard, get home in this?" A thought for the ages, my friends.
Maybe its the rain. I tottered about town letting Jeff drive in the mess, because he likes to drive, and I don't like to drive, and that works out well. It was dim, the kind of dim like where the sun filters through a lampshade, which are, in fact, clouds, a sort of bright but diffuse all-over even glow, devoid of shadows, flattened on a plane of existence.
Rain makes me want to cuddle. And drink hot coffee. Under blankets.
I looked over at Jeff, driving my car, having a faux hawk. Is that even how you spell "faux hawk?" Who the fuck invented the faux hawk? He likes to say things like "its big in Europe."
Maybe I can cuddle that, I thought. It looks like theres a little (wet) animal lying on his head, after all.
But I'd recently cut Jeff off from the physical affection for the Incident of the Six Hickeys Not Mine, and cuddling didn't seem to be going down the Road to Plantonicville, Population Us. Instead he lay on the floor and I lay on the couch. And I thought twice about rolling down off the couch and mounting whatever I found there (which was likely to be Jeff, but I would play it off as if I were surprised, perhaps it was just a black curly rug. With a body attatched,) and going from that point, but again I reminded myself of my staunch position. Sad. A rainy, rainy day, hot coffee, blankets, a place to ourselves, and I'd cut him off for being too much of a slut.
Oh, what a waste.
Maybe its the rain. All day everything seemed like more than it was, and like my brain couldn't eat it all. Lights looked brighter, things sounded more distinct, and I kept noticing the looks on strangers' faces. I liked to try to figgure out what had just happened to them, and if they were happy or sad. Jeff said that I should do less drugs. I don't do any drugs. Sometimes I would look at a face and get overwhelmingly sad. I saw a man eating alone, and he could have just been merrily on lunchbreak, and I got very sad. My brain asks "why is he alone today?" and there are too many sad reasons. I think I am also afraid of being old and alone. Old people out by themselves make me very sad, and everything seemed very intense that day, and nothing seemed particularly capable of being rendered into words and speech.
Thats why cuddling would have been so good.
Under blankets.