Having reached the nadir of my despair when my most-lusted after Sam was kicked off of Top Chef last night, I climbed the stairs to bed swearing to myself tomorrow would be another day. I thought about crying myself to sleep, but I didn’t really have anything to cry about. And, well, crying from lonesomeness is just totally passé. So instead I pouted a bit, read some of Cormac McCarthy’s desolate The Road, and shut off the lights vowing again to myself that today would be better. Because really, January can fucking blow me.
Waking up this morning things were not much better. My e-mail was not overflowing with paeans to my beauty sent by men who want to have sex with me, I woke up singing “Louie, Louie,” and I still had to go to work.
But then I got to work and what should be awaiting me? The new Andrew Bird CD “Armchair Apocrypha” (you can download a track at More Cowbell), sent by a very kind man who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty.
My insides are like popping popcorn, and I’m still shaking with the joy of it. It’s good too! Wonderful, sensual, and the kind of music that you want to rub on your body. This is a delightful surprise, after being somewhat disappointed by the new Shins’ album “Wincing the Night Away.”
The only bummer? I have meetings all afternoon so I can’t listen to it over and over and over again until my heart bursts from my chest.
Another good thing? Caramelly, cinnamony, buttery, monkey bread in the toaster over. My work posse is probably the best thing to ever happen to work.