Monday, October 10, 2005

My own Rip Van Winkle

So last night didn't go as planned, but maybe for the better.

Homie J.B. didn't call me from The Green Mill's Poetry Slam (Marc Smith "So What?!?") to tell me where to meet up with him and Seatt-L.C. (It ended up they left right after).

I got home from work feeling coughy and draggy, but determined to go out. I had, like a dork, accidently deleted Homie J.B.'s phone number from my Caller ID, so I waited around for him to call; a little of this, checking emails, chasing Lilly around the apartment, watched a little Image Union, and generally fighting the urge to doze off on the too small couch. I finally gave up the wait, went to bed, and ended up sleeping for FOURTEEN HOURS. WTF? I guess this chest cold is still kicking hard.

Tonight the plan is to meet up for Indian food, and drinks afterward.

* * *

News from within The Complex:
About five minutes after I stepped into The Cube after work last night, my door buzzer went off. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening as visitors are a rare thing. I went to the box thingy: "Hello?" no answer... "Hello???" no answer. And then I realized:

It was coming from inside The Complex!

Thankfully, it turned out not to be a psycho killer, but my neighbor Complex Carrieand she held in her hand, not a butcher's knife, but portion of Raspberry Pound cake her husband baked the other day. The thing weighed a ton, but tasted sugary and fruity. My sweet tooth exploded and asked for more. (thanks, guys)

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