I say “sort of” only because a branch of magic is happening in the photo that’s making my arms look like spaghetti. Capellini, even.
Speaking of magic, you may be asking yourself if I’ve experienced any wonderworks since the chop crop. The answer is mostly no, unless you break my life junk down into smaller pieces.
Today I ate a Mission Taco Joint Portobello Taco while talking to a friend about a book we’ve both read. Had you joined us, you would hear how our conversation quickly jumped into parallel universes and solipsism and never being able to see adequately through someone else’s window. (We also touched on causes that are important enough to blow oneself up over. Or, important enough over which to blow up oneself. Disclaimer: You have nothing to worry about if we find ourselves in a room together. No one needs to worry, really.)
After taking a friend for a piercing recently, I decided to reopen my ear holes. I immediately asked Jeff if, at 47, I’ve gone too far. His answer included the word Subtle and he continues to put up with my blerghs and whizzes. Apparently, midlife is playing itself out on me with ink and holes. Why is my ear so red? Me, me, me, me, me. Tiresome, really.
Someday we need to talk about *my* potential sleep study and how *I* have been falling asleep in weird places (LIKE THE CAR) and how *I* think *my* brains may be leaking from *my* nose. (I’ve been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy. Also, my childhood dog (Digger) had CSF rhinorrhea and you never know what you can and cannot catch.)
On the way home from Mission Taco Joint, one of my favorite songs shuffled and it was perfect and it was this.