Baby won't you take this magnet and put my picture back on the fridge
Rainy day, gray gloom, and the proverbial activity set. A friend has recently confided that he is confounded by weather talk. “People always want me to talk about the weather,” he says, “but I have no idea what to say about it.” But weather really just is the way to foment commonality and supply the amiable silence-covering conversational drizzle that has you saying to random strangers how crappy it is out. He is interpreting it a different way, however, positing the fact that if you have nothing to say, do not say anything at all, which might be largely indicative of any number of blog entries. “The next time someone says something to me about the weather,” he tells me, “I’m going to tell them, ‘fuck you.’”

But I really have just been having a glorious day, falling in and out of sleep long enough to realize how nice it is. I’m old enough now to have transcended the guilt complex my mom imbued on me as a child, always making you feel bad about sleeping in the day. There are things to be done, but fuck all that, I realize, falling back into a slumber. I have these dreams, too. And it’s kind of strange. There’s this one where I’m sitting on a toilet, and everyone is standing around me in a circle, watching. Which is kind of a werid thing to have a dream about.