Dancing with the Dead

I'm very thirsty, and the newspaper just got delivered. That means it's tomorrow. I hate to be reminded of the phase shift in my scheduled waking hours. I don't want to hear the birds chirping just before I tuck in. Thank the gods there are no roosters in my neighborhood. Firstly, because I would have to kill them for the crowing. And secondly, because that would be a heady indicator that I live in an impoverished region where people collect their drinking water on the rusted, corrugated roofs of their shanty homes. And that's simply not the case.

I suppose I could think to myself that the fact that I don't HAVE to be up at any particular time on most days makes me superior to all those poor suckers out there who have to clock in before the boss gets wise, what with all my freedom and unstructuredness. But then there's that sad follow-up when I repeat it to myself and take note of the fact that I don't HAVE to be up, which causes one to wonder if there is any reason to be up at all. Maybe the beauty of the daily grind is that you always know someone is expecting you. Whether they like you or not. Whether they appreciate your humor or not. Whether they notice your new duds or not. If you don't show up, they wonder about you. And that's almost like knowing someone cares. When you don't have to be anywhere at any particular time, there's less reason for anyone to miss you. Not surprisingly, I go back and forth on this.

I watched a movie in a graveyard tonight, and I brought picnic fare. There's no person on the planet you'd rather have along on a picnic than me. I bring all the good stuff. Ask anyone.