You May Kiss My Rhinestone-Buckled Foot

Less than twenty-four hours after I wrote this

He no longer calls me at 2:30 in the morning to tell me he's sitting in the
flower bed outside the bar and that he wants to buy me cheesebread.

the Wily Republican called me at 2:30 in the morning. He'd just gotten back from the bar, from a birthday celebration for one of his friends. The friend was puking in the background. It felt a little like how it used to be, except the WR wasn't asking me to come over and eat cheesebread and watch late night MTV. Instead, he was telling me to call and wake him up on my way to his place in the morning.

Everything is a mess. My room, my car, my head. I haven't packed enough, I haven't gotten ready for these things, and outside the sky is green and witchy.

But I'm putting on the world's most beautiful shoes and getting in my car and heading up to The Cities. That's got to count for something, even if that something is very, very small.