Banana bread, track pants, and nights of Schitt’s Creek
The clatter and noise from this new virus was bleak
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I spent the rest of the week continuing to observe and pass judgment. It was a few days before the drinkers showed up; a nice group of gen-something-or-others that had beer hidden behind a tree and every lap, pulled over for a swig.
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Someone stopping by unannounced sends my brain into a social tailspin and feels like fireworks have just been dropped in my lap; all I can do is smile, pretend it doesn’t burn and act like sparks from my loins are normal.
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‘Alone time’ seems like an impractical luxury, like using a diamond encrusted shovel to pick up dog poop or taking a limousine to a doctor’s appointment. Why? How?
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And emotional eating is not a comfort I want to explore either, lest I grow exponentially and break the walls of that rabbit hole …
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I was giddy, a bit buzzed and chuckled out loud at the free pencil they gave us “Write drunk. Edit sober”. Ok.
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