All I have left are the black squares in the afghan. They are slowly coming along. I don’t know how many rows I’m going to end up with, just that I need an even amount. I’m halfway through row 24 now. I thought about just stopping here, but I’d like to see if I can get 26 rows. Then I have to tuck all those ends. But then I get to start sewing things together and seeing how this shapes up.
My dad called to say that their cat’s been missing since Thursday. It got out and ran off. This is unlike the cat who usually ventured no further than the garage or porch and only when my mom and dad were with it and wanted to come back in the house with them. They’ve got a neighbor kid watching to see if it turns up at the old house and they’ve been leaving the garage door open in case it’s still around the neighborhood and today they’ll go and check the shelters. But the running off is so unlike it that my dad and I are both of the opinion that it went off somewhere to die. Simon was a kitten when Mrs. Wigglebottom was a pup, so I guess that’s pretty old for a cat.
I’m sad for my parents though, and hate for them that they don’t know for sure.
Hope can sometimes be a fucker.
I do my reading tomorrow night. I have 15 minutes and I guess the band gets 30? I just decided that I’m taking 20. Fuck it. I want to read three things and, even if they’re just five minutes a piece, things take time between.
A dude who’s never met me painted my portrait. You can go see it at East Side Story, if you want. I have mixed feelings about it. I think he got my smile right. S. says he doesn’t do my hair justice.
I feel weird, with my lack of success, being called a Nashville writer, except for in the political blogger sense. And I’m not sure I quite understand why anyone would want to paint a portrait of me. But I’m trying to be gracious because it’s kind of a fuckerly thing to do to let your own hangups get in the way of appreciating something in the spirit in which it was given.