Sliders.

Ragged Anne M saved me from myself this evening. She honks and I run. Today she rolled up in Gracie's car and when I opened the door I was flooded with beats of welcome and familiarity, and she nary said a word even though I knew that she knew I smelled of ass.

That is friendship.

She drove, we talked, hashed some things out respectively, hated on the Internet, laughed hard at my outfit and at our own pathetic selves and twin states of mind. She is one of the FEW who I can candidly admit who I stalk on the internet and she always complies and satisfies my curiosity with her own outrageous list.

"iGoogle, get on that shit". Okay girl, whatever you say Ragged.

I love this lady. This lady who slipped a hand written note into my flustered palm one night in summer at an art jam at the Boozecan. The kind of night where everyone arrived at the same time from different directions on bikes, drunk, happy, delirious with summer ease. We arrived separately and I left a different person. She was a vital part of self discovery this summer. It was the best "I love you" I have received in years. Ragged, I love you too. So much so. Scott, you are the shit too.

I just ate all that the luxe McDonald's on Grant (identical to Earls Main save for the ugly employees, heatless fireplaces and UPC codes on the wall) had to offer and now I am going to bathe, for the second time today. Then I will read while this food slides through my digestive tract like butter. It is time.

Starting now, I am on a four day weekend. Tomorrow shit is going to go down on a dance floor. Pardon my shit by the way; I find it to be a step up from the F word, which I am trying to cull from my lexicon. One shit and fuck at a time, Grandma. Baby steps.

Speaking of les enfants, I had dinner with Baby Mad (the Ukrainian queen) and her overtly relaxed mother and our friend Kathleen at Spicy Noodle House today and the baby was just that: Mad. Beyond mad, hopping mad, wild, livid, boiling, apoplectic, hot under the collar, on the warpath, foaming at the mouth, steamed up, fit to be tied, wrathful even. She screamed the entire time and while attempting to pacify this beast baby, people stared fiercely and instantly I became that person in a restaurant. That person who dares to cart a pissy newborn to Spicy Noodle House on Valentine's weekend. I felt like a single mama on a day out from the Projects. It was another of life's subtle reminders that I am not ready to procreate yet.

Babies turn into monsters, turn into people, turn into young adults who steel your liquid Tide, canned beans and toilet paper when you go away to Bali for a month. Thanks, life. I owe you one.

My baby fever has broken.
McDonalds is very delicious.
I HATE the teens who live underneath me.
Ragged Anne M tights-as-pants is the shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit is the new black.

I am not clever anymore.