After posting yesterday, I met up with an old friend at a gross dive.
We talked about books and theater and the election and music and aging and death and written language and brain dissection and suicide bombers.
And we did it in style.
Then we bolted over to a high school where we sat in a big room and applauded as enchantingly-illumined teenagers in periwigs and bustles cracked wise to the tune of a C-major piano sonata by Mozart before being rescued by their own coats. (Also, during the performance I choked on peanut M&M’s [sic] and when I tried to hold back a cough my tear duct popped out so I had to press it back in while glugging down a bottle of water as tears streamed down the right side of my face. At any given moment, so many things can go wrong!)
The best news? My friend is still my friend.
This morning I had breakfast with my sister and my nephew and during the walk back to my car, I noticed this statue.
Obviously, I fell in love with her.
And then it was time to hit the road for the three hour drive home, but not before picking up some discounted syphilis.
(I had to pass on the gonorrhea. I just don’t have the space for it.)