At about 2:15 this afternoon, a colleague came into my office and suggested we just go get drunk. I was more disappointed than I ought to be that she wasn’t really serious. It was a bit of a ridiculous day. So on our commute home, when Elie let me know he picked up Dead Guy while he was buying Challah, I was pretty happy. We pulled into the yard and the weekend started happening. Beer was opened, steaks were put on the grill, the lonely chicken was let out, and she followed me out into the garden where I did some casual weeding. I pulled up the very first harvest—some delicious radishes.
Now I’m listening to every version of Tiny Dancer YouTube has. The song gives me the creeping willies—it’s the whole having a tiny dancer in your hand part—but it’s been in my head for over a week and it keeps making cameos in my life, so it has to go. I’m pretty sure learning all the lyrics is the only way to do it.
