These are crazy days. The Nest is occupied. One of the Filthies has lost his mind, while the other one is pushing full steam ahead on destroying what’s left of his.
I’ve endured several hair interventions lately, as well as a couple dealing with problems of a more existential nature.
I had a dream the other night that I finally submitted to a haircut, only to have the friend who offered styling help leave halfway through the job to write a paper for school. It’s alright, I told everybody at the bar, I’m getting the haircut finished tomorrow.
I’m testing my research skills out with the King County Superior Court, re-emergences are everywhere and tomorrow it’ll be 100 degrees in the Ol’ Pueblo.
The other night, Mr. Chair told me about how it was funny we couldn’t find Harry Belafonte the previous evening. What? I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. We both knew we were talking about a cd, but the General was far more confused, wondering why we had been searching the house for an elderly black man.
But I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. Turns out Chair dreamed it. Just ponder for a moment what that dream really means.
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