The memory of a dream

Yesterday a drunk Inuit came up to me on the street and told me my hair was beautiful. He then apologized for bothering me and walked away.

"Take care of yourself," I said.

. . .

The goal of beer was accomplished with a pitcher of Pike Bootleg Brown, complemented with deliciously half-priced nachos. I always suspected there was a reward for drinking earlier in the day, but not that it was so tasty.

After the consumption, Guillermo and I walked around downtown and sort of half-drunkenly shopped while yapping about various things.

There are always a few metrics by which you judge your friendships with people. The way I know that Bill is a completely wonderful friend is this:

He has the ability to say, "Mary, everybody is always fucked up all the time and it never gets any better," and while it depresses me more immediately, it makes me feel a lot better later on. Not just anybody can do that.

Also, he has an incredibly keen sense of fashion.

. . .

Considering heading south tomorrow if the flight loads hold. It'll give me some warm sunshine (hopefully) and a chance to finish my book before it's due on Friday.

One day soon, I will have to find out where my powers of concentration went and hunt them down to make them work for me again.