Last night as winter showed up and my hangover wore off, I had vivid dreams about being on my favorite point break in Africa. In the dream, there were sharks but no attacks and all three of my fins were missing when I got out of the water.
Friday I caught a ride to see R. We had white wine and onion soup in a high end dive; worn velvet chairs and marble statutes among silk flowers and lederhosen (it is October). I had met him at an imposing sterile building, we finished up compiling data for his last research project, marking the end of a long stretch. We talked about the future, how when he wants to live alone ("but not alone") he'll get rid of his roommates, how in a year and a half we could be in a bigger city.
And when you're empty, I'll fill you up
Saturday, home again, Thanksgiving with friends. As in, a bottle of wine my dad made, brownies, olives and boxed stuffing. My friends showed up with a bucket of KFC, we went to a house party and then to a bar.
Wearing surly fifteen year old so well (tight fitting irreverent tshirt, smudged mascara, vague disapproval through gin induced heavy eyelids) results in amorous affections of sophomores (in station and style) everywhere, forever.
Today my feet got cold and wet on the way to the office. This could be a long six months.
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