Work has been nonstop ... work ... lately, so combined with my very busy schedule of sloth and insomnia, I've done very little worth writing home about.
Tropical storm Claudette has stubbornly refused to dump any environmental disaster of any kind on the Woodside. Unfortunately, the unfulfilled promise of same is leading to canine cabin fever that is swiftly descending into madness. I don't like the way J is looking at me these days, like a dog who might wake in the night with a sudden urge to eat my face cream. Or my face.
I am off this evening on an ill-fated social errand, from which I hope to return with tales of unmatched awkwardness and inappropriate non sequitur. There will be boys. One of whom is my brother, but that is neither here nor there. Y chromosomes elicit an uncommon vapidity in me. I'll probably start a high-pitched conversation about Care Bears.
So as you nestle into your reliable loved one this evening, grateful that you managed to navigate finding each other the way God intended—at blurry frat parties—think of me.
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