It's raining buckets here and I'm not at all upset about it. Instead, I've been wallowing around in bed reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It's wonderful and I'm absolutely loving it. I spent a couple of hours on the phone with mama and Angie and then I made a huge pot of spaghetti. I took a shower. I did dishes. I ignored the wads of loose cat fur attached to the rugs. I poked Bea every time I walked by her to make sure she's still breathing, because she's about a hundred years old and that's what you do when you share your life with the elderly.
Last night we hung out at Bill's house for a few hours. There are really so many things I could say to elaborate. But I'll just tell y'all like I told Angie. An hour with Bill is a lot of fun... anything over that and your life starts resembling a Tim Burton movie: you're pretty sure you're enjoying yourself, but everything's starting to feel surreal. Afterwards, like way afterwards, John and I laughed ourselves stupid doing re-enactments of the evening. Days from now I'll be at work and suddenly get the absurd giggles because a phrase or gesture from last night will pop into my head. Probably it'll be the story about the night thirty years ago when John showed up at Bill's apartment with a bag of lobsters in one hand and an 8-ball of rock in the other and how they spent the rest of the night living like kings. Bill said at 9 o'clock the next morning, John shows back up and Bill says, "Man, I just saw you three hours ago, didn't you sleep?". And John answers, with his eyes the size of dinner plates, "Yeah dude, I slept. I slept like a baby: I shit my pants and woke up screaming."