warped plastic covering graphic novels and rumpled sheets covering my bare legs
I have the day off. I may do some writing, go see a movie, lounge around Los Feliz or someplace. Sell some CDs to Amoeba, return some books to the library.
Yesterday I went to a party a girl from work invited me to -- hung out with strangers in Manhattan Beach and smiled. We climbed up onto the roof of the house when the sun set, scanning the horizon for whatever fireworks we could see. Hermosa Beach's were the most visible, close enough for the booms to echo towards us, and on the street below little kids down the block and big kids right in front of us set off bottle rockets and screamers. Twentysomethings in board shorts danced with sparklers. I ate chips and dangled my feet over the side, the gravel beneath me scattering downwards as I got up.
When the party died down I headed north on the 405, fireworks still going off to my right as we crept along at 10 mph. Every driver keeping pace, going just slow enough to stop, wonder, ooh and awe.
I arrived at my friends' house to find myself the only sober person there. A girl among them KNEW she knew me from something previous, despite my utter lack of recall -- we traced back our life stories, trying to figure out when they might have intersected, and when we figured out the connection we hugged, laughing, and toasted each other with diet Coke and Smirnoff.
There were baby kittens in a room upstairs, tiny and mewing and precious. They were rescued out of a couch a week ago, and are now hotly contested. They'll all find homes. They are so very lucky.
The strange discontent, the boredom I felt at the end of last week? Maybe I've just kicked this bug I caught. Maybe I just took the time I needed to relax, sleep, reset.