Y’all, I am so tired. I went to bed at 4:30 in the morning because I think I’m fucking Jim Morrison or Hunter S. Thompson or something. Well, I don’t think I’m actually having sex with Jim Morrison, but I’m too tired to even hit my back space key to fix the sentence so that it says what I really wish it said.
So onward and upward.
I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning like a rockstar and woke up at 8:00 like your dear old Aunt B., because, indeed, I am just your dear old Aunt B. and not a rock star.
You may ask why I stayed up so late. You may ask what the night has to teach me that the day can’t get done.
I’m going to tell you.
I discovered that the Butcher is living two lives. He has a day life of jobs and tv watching and hanging out with his sister. And then I go to bed at the civilized hour of 9:30 and his second life, full of phone calls and people just dropping by to say hello and hang out for a few minutes and soft core porn and Beat poets and their literary progenitors, begins.
There is now a bicycle in our kitchen. Our kitchen is so small that I can stand at one end and stir things on the stove at the other end. So, with the bicycle in there, I can’t do the dishes because I can’t get to the sink.
Why is the bicycle in the kitchen? Because the Butcher rode it in there.
Some guy I didn’t know walked in and after about three minutes, showed me a bottle rocket scar he’d acquired within a hair’s breadth of his genitals.
I am a little afraid but also secretly delighted to discover that my brother is living a life like a modern-day Monkee.
Still, as much fun as it was, I think I will be returning to my regularly scheduled bedtime.