It is nearly late July and I have my apartment windows open because the weather is the nicest it could possibly be. Like, it’s so nice that I’m having a hard time trusting it. So nice that it has to have ulterior motives. So nice that I’m pretty sure it’s scamming me one way or the other. So nice that I’m afraid I will come home and it will have left town with all my…
Just cant get my poor self together, I’m weary all of the time So weary all of the time “Stormy Weather” — written by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler (I am partial to the Etta James version) [Project 365]
I got out of the office tonight for dinner at just the right time. The sun was setting and the sky was heavy with blue. People were out and about, letting the warm air hit their skin. I love this time of year right at the birth of spring, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get tired of saying it. [Project 365]
It snowed Saturday and I reverted, as I always do when it snows, to a hyperactive eight-year-old. Which means snowalking in the park at midnight after work. As always, shenanigans were involved: Full Flickr set here.
My crud seems to be worsening. I might actually have to haul ass to the doctor, despite my eight-year-old-inner-child protests. On the subject of frigidity (we were talking about that, right?), I finally reviewed The World’s Dumbest Book. Did that feel good, you ask? Yes. Yes, it did. I got so carried away that I left out the part where the author lists her cures to low self-esteem. Among them? Cut out all sugar, refined…
Sarah and I were booty dancing catching up into the wee hours when we noticed that the nasty rain had turned to snow. And then we went out and played in it. At 5:30 in the morning. (We’d technically not been asleep so it still qualifies as my Day 27.) Unrelatedly, my lungs felt a little like death today. More snowtography here. [Project 365]
Because — and I don’t want to be too forward here — I was kinda halfway thinking maybe that I might call it up and invite it over, and we could order takeout from Camy’s, and maybe drink some Viognier and maybe watch Wet Hot American Summer, and, I dunno, maybe grope each other awkwardly on my couch. Because, well, I really like this weather.
Everyone’s talking about the heat. How can we not? It’s 95 degrees out and feels like 102. Last night I drove home to Midtown from Cordova with my windows down. It was midnight and it felt like I was sitting in bathwater. Even the breeze was hot, like breath. Right now I’m sitting here trying to psych myself up so I can leave the apartment and walk to my car. My car is black. It’s…
The teevee tells me that the weather’s gone all orange and pink and red. It’s disgusting, mixing those colors like that. About an hour ago I was driving north on Avalon, taking a right onto Madison, when I saw the biggest fucking lightning streak I have ever seen. It was so big because it was seemingly right in fucking front of me, and its union with whatever it struck created the loudest and sickest boom-snap-crackle-fizz…
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