State of the Union
Sunday August 14th, 2016
AC (Year of our Lord, the Air Conditioner)
After venturing out this morning to eat eggs Benedict (hold most of the Benedict) and procure dead sea creatures from the locals, I am able to report that today, friends, is slightly less revolting than yesterday. The internet is back on at Casa de la Floja, which is excellent news for everyone because not having it for one day drove us to DIY a projector for our iPhones. (Pictured: One roll of masking tape. Here's a tutorial on how to enjoy the luxury of the internet on a screen bigger than your hand even when it's 1000 degrees out: Don't have Time Warner.) We actually DI well enough to get through about fourteen minutes of Armageddon, which I for one will be carefully noting down in my Notebook of Feats. There's some room left on the page where I wrote down how we made it the 1/4 of a block to the laundromat without shriveling. We (Diego) had a list of fun musical/boozey dancey things we'd planned on doing yesterday but though our (Diego's) spirits were willing, our (my) flesh was unwilling to be burned to death.
It's been approximately two months since we moved in to our new apartment, and what we lack in kitchen tables we've been making up for in scented candles and impromptu anniversary bus trips. Somehow, most of the photos I took of that particular weekend came out looking like this:
I can neither explain nor understand, so I'll just glean from whatever photos Diego has when I eventually begin work on the scrapbook that exists only in my mind.
What else. I guess I thought, when I initially set out on this reporting of the state of things, that I could briefly discuss a few different areas of le life and in that way sort of ease back into writing here more frequently. What a stupid thought, you're thinking. Or not thinking, because you're not reading this, because why would you? I wouldn't. I wouldn't be caught dead.
The way to do anything is just to do the thing. So that's what I'll do. Also, if that's what I decide it means that I can be done with this for now (I don't know if you could tell, but I grew weary of this almost immediately. Sorry if you could, I did my best to hide it) and go back to watching The Office for the thirtieth time while my handsome boyfriend sings to himself in the kitchen (where he belongs.) (Also he's barefoot.) (#feminism)
(He's cooking in there. He's not just, like, standing in there singing quietly. I don't think.)
