Bonfires
My date with my 45-year-old-self was prescient. But it wasn’t surprising given the day before.
My to-do list was (is) packed. To the freaking gills.
But I wanted to go to the bonfire that night. They happen every other Friday in winter. The bands usually suck but this time they had a great group I last saw a year ago up in Vero Beach.
My sidekick had the day off. Every time she’s off, I’m stuck there till all hours. I missed the PostSecret event in part because A) too much to do and B) she was out.
(Yes I am still butthurting about that. I’ll get over it after I get over President Shit for Brains.)
In any event, I put “Bonfire” as the seventh item on my to-do list. I did get things done that were on the list after it. But I was determined to go home, grab my Momma, and get us to the beach.
We were late, but we got there.
And so the dream makes sense in that context — no one else was missing their Friday night plans. Why should I?
I made up for it last night, getting done what HAD to get done for this morning. Would have liked to have spent some time calling Little Marco Rubio and asking why the fuck he didn’t stand up to President Snowflake and his Chief Nazi Bannon back when he had the chance. But thank God for the ACLU and the record donations it received to fight these fools’ idiotic decisions.
I have zero doubt this is 100% Bannon, puppeteering the dottering old fool. I’m going to call him president from now on because he’s the real scourge we need to exterminate.
In any event, we’re all gonna die. Go to the damn bonfire. That’s all I’m saying here. And let anyone who worked longer/harder (and can prove it) cast the first stone.