I love this story so much. Now I love that there’s both a reconstruction of his face–in which he looks like he might have been constantly afflicted by bad gas–and a warning that we don’t know for certain that the body is his.
In Richard’s honor, I’m going to go lie down in the parking lot and pretend I can sleep undisturbed for hundreds of years. Crows will shit on me, but I won’t care.
Did I tell y’all that I got so sick of my brain that I decided to send it on vacation? Um, or maybe more realistically, lock it in its room? Seriously, by Sunday morning, I had had it with that brat and its piss poor attitude so I just decided to ignore it and the dog and I went to the park and then did some housework and then organized the individual squares of the afghan for making larger squares and got a couple of larger squares started.
Then yesterday I watched TV.
The brain is not allowed to read fiction or write fiction until the brain can hang out here with a better attitude about the work it does. Because, otherwise, I cannot bear it.
And you know what? Sunday night and then last night? I finally had some god damn restful sleep.
Tiny Cat Pants 