I want to write about things I shouldn't. My mother taught me to be polite, certainly death to creativity and freedom. Polite is quaint, like a potato masher or darning eggs. There are some items that are not going well, My divorce is not going well (I have a headache), the economy is not going well, there is an amorphous sense of dread.
We went to an open mic last night in an effing snowfall. We got there way too early but scoped the joint. We came back later and a mic had been set up and there were a few musicians, not too bad. Then a few poems and we learned to barge in, so we did, one after the other. Josh and I fell into a giggling fit when he showed me a poem about a dead goose. We should have been escorted out. We weren't being rude exactly, just not polite.
I'm drinking a hot toddy tonight. Brandy, hot water, a bit of agave, a squeeze of lemon and the rind, and a smidge of cinnamon. I don't think there is anything wrong with sleeping on the couch in my clothes without brushing my teeth. I can if I want.
Mostly, I miss J so much my bones hurt.
What will happen to all of us?