I was having such a good night. Even though it started snowing again, I didn’t have to wait long for the bus. I made myself tuna mac and cheese—my zenith of comfort food. I read the first section of Specimen Days by Michael Cunningham, the last book (for the moment) of my Walt Whitman reading list.
Then I got ready for bed, only to discover one of the cats had already been there and marked their territory. These cats know me. They don’t hate me. I hope. Maybe it’s the futon they hate.
I don’t have the energy to deal with this mess tonight. I’m sleeping in my parents’s bed.