Whenever I have the kind of weekend that I’ve just had I sit in my La-Z-Grrl on Sunday night, sigh, and think, “and the tree was happy.” I don’t particularly like The Giving Tree because it’s sexist, but I do so love the line.
I often think of myself as a tree. Which always seems to remind me of my college roommate F.R. Chicken and how we use to drive in her Honda Accord named Trudie to the outskirts of Eau Claire and look at “her tree.”
Anyway, I was going to brag about how I haven’t spoken to a single person since leaving work on Friday, but then I remembered my mom ruined that by calling me yesterday to tell me my Great Uncle Bob had died (he was my Grammu’s brother-in-law).
Still, it’s been a pretty nice and relaxing weekend, even with the bad dreams. My subconscious must be working through some shit because I keep having dreams about being incredibly angry and frustrated, or incredibly frustrated and lonely. I’m letting it work it out on its own. I don’t feel like dealing with it.
So I got to lay around and read, work on a short story, write some reviews, eat a pork chop, and watch Whore Bus. Is there anything else you could ask for from a weekend? No, no there is not. Well maybe two episodes of Whore Bus, but I don’t want to get greedy.