Greaser

It wasn’t a morning of triumph for your Ms. Parilac. I slept until 10:30 or so, which isn’t irregular if I have the day off. But then I just sat around for a couple of lame hours, watching Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?, eating multiple bagels with multiple spreads, and complimenting my cats on their cuteness/adorableness/smoochiness.

I tried to kick ass into a higher gear by at least getting out of the house. I wandered to my closest area of commerce—the carbuncle of Chicago that is “UIC Village“—snuck some soda into a Caribou and did payday chores online. Moving to a sofa a few blocks away from my own didn’t make me feel very accomplished, but it was pleasant. I kind of liked how everyone in the place could have been doing what they were doing—drinking an iced latte, chatting with a friend, highlighting a textbook—outside on such a gorgeous day but didn’t care. I’m not one to let nice weather strong-arm me into enjoying it. Hmph to blue skies!

So there I was, thinking I was surrounded by like-minded folks, when I noticed the guy next to me was looking at a website featuring photographs of mice inside vaginas. So much for fellowship. I really needed to change the course of my day. I called up Sherri, to see if she wanted to hang out. She did, and could, and didn’t mind that I’d left the house wearing an inside-out shirt and pants.

Next time on Rawr: something along the lines of my not being lame.