This morning the bedframe broke. Happy almost-birthday to me.
CNN on mute, Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat, house cleaning. Everytime J-Mc comes onscreen I think of John Travolta’s opponent getting so pissed during a debate he gets a big ol’ heart attack and keels over. Just sayin’.
I’ve been drafting and re-drafting “Animus” for Centrifugal eye but have not spent substantial time at the typewriter since I’ve gotten home. I had the most incredible dream the other night that I’m going to transform into a short story: Last Days of Marilyn Monroe. Thanks to Vanity Fair for Unconscious Fodder.
It’s too quiet without Jonanna.
