yes a low wind may blow
I have yet to locate pants, having deemed them to be of tertiary concern at this moment. My first concern is trying to relax. My second concern is trying to resist the overwhelming urge to catalog my concerns and set about organizing my day off in any way, shape or form. Thus far, I have only half-succeeded.
I do, however, take it as a good sign that I have yet to locate pants.
I awoke somewhere around eight-thirty to the frenetic vibrations of salsa music as they reverberated their way up from the third floor apartment. Happily, the volume was not offensively high and the combination of cuban beats, chirping birds, and a cool breeze had me unconciously gyrating my hips. At eight-fifty, my jackass best friend A. called my cell phone, which I had rather stupidly left turned on since he knew I was sleeping in and I assumed that finding no answer on my home phone would suffice as an indicator that I was not to be disturbed. No, he called my home phone and left a message, but then, just for good measure, called my cell phone and did not leave a message. It was almost as though he was attempting to function as an alarm clock. Happily, I was already awake (though not taking calls) so I have still managed to maintain an anger-free morning.
I curled up in my easy chair and finished off Billy Bean's somewhat anticlimactic autobiography, a work that underscores the importance of a smart denouement--reading a decent book that just sort of trails off is vaguely akin to starting a really hot sex session and then deciding you are too tired or sore to complete it. Mostly, I have spent my morning using google.com to finish the innumerable half-completed crossword puzzles that have begun gathering like dust bunnies in the many corners and dark recesses of my apartment.
And now, thunder is rumbling in the distance. Maybe I'll masturbate before I shower.
I do, however, take it as a good sign that I have yet to locate pants.
I awoke somewhere around eight-thirty to the frenetic vibrations of salsa music as they reverberated their way up from the third floor apartment. Happily, the volume was not offensively high and the combination of cuban beats, chirping birds, and a cool breeze had me unconciously gyrating my hips. At eight-fifty, my jackass best friend A. called my cell phone, which I had rather stupidly left turned on since he knew I was sleeping in and I assumed that finding no answer on my home phone would suffice as an indicator that I was not to be disturbed. No, he called my home phone and left a message, but then, just for good measure, called my cell phone and did not leave a message. It was almost as though he was attempting to function as an alarm clock. Happily, I was already awake (though not taking calls) so I have still managed to maintain an anger-free morning.
I curled up in my easy chair and finished off Billy Bean's somewhat anticlimactic autobiography, a work that underscores the importance of a smart denouement--reading a decent book that just sort of trails off is vaguely akin to starting a really hot sex session and then deciding you are too tired or sore to complete it. Mostly, I have spent my morning using google.com to finish the innumerable half-completed crossword puzzles that have begun gathering like dust bunnies in the many corners and dark recesses of my apartment.
And now, thunder is rumbling in the distance. Maybe I'll masturbate before I shower.