I have an upset stomach, and thus I am trying to distract myself until the sense of pending danger goes away. It seems fitting that I am writing this on what looks to be both a stomach and an advertisement for Pepto-Bismol gone awry, but what is really an Urban Outfitters bag that once held cargo shorts and leopard print tights. To whom it may concern, this is going to be a rambling note.
This evening I made lasagna, or, as we came to call it, Lovesagna. Lovesagna is what happens when you take a recipe for lasagna from the internet before realizing that the recipe was likely created by the British in 1960. Never has a lasagna been so wanting for tomatoes and basil, or most anything that isn't white or clear, since the beginning of lasagna.
But perseverance can turn any pot until the ingredients coalesce into something edible. We hovered over the stove for two hours. We tasted and sometimes burned tongues. Luckily, when tongues were burned, there was always someone to blow the tongue off.
When the going got tough, the tough played Mariah Carey. Belting out "Dreamlover" over a middling attempt at lasagna no doubt urged the molecules therein to stop being so awful and start being more delicious. And so it was writ: Lovesagna was a success.
After leaving the land of Lovesagna, I had two choices: ascend a mountain only to come down, or take the J Church over the mountain and through the woods of Dolores Park. The third option was a cab, but there were none and I was feeling frugal.
I decided that I'd rather go to bed than ascend to the summit, but I only had one $1 bill. As all good San Franciscans know, it requires two $1 bills, or eight quarters, to take the Muni. So I was in search of ways to make an extra dollar bill appear in my pocket.
In desperation, I briefly considered asking one of the numerous women walking their dogs for a dollar. I decided, however, that the act of me asking for a dollar would not go over terribly well at 11:00PM on a Monday.
Back to the drawing board I went. Until I decided that buying a Snickers bar from the liquor store and breaking my five dollar bill would solve my problems. A Snickers bar, I learned, costs 95 cents so my money problems were solved as I was handed four $1 bills and a nickel.
While waiting for the J Church, the Snickers bar seemed a good way to pass the time, so I ate it. That solved my problem of being bored and not having had dessert, so I was satisfied. Unfortunately, that Snickers bar doesn't get along with the piece of Lovesagna in my stomach, so I am back at square one, discussing the state of my bodily affairs.
Often, when I am up late and should be sleeping, I feel like I'm alone on a bicycle for two and get misty eyed about you (sleep). (It's cause I'm a still waters run deep kind of guy, emotionally speaking at least). Tonight is no exception.
Thankfully, in times like these, I have vibrantly colored shopping bags on my floor to keep me entertained. I briefly considered starting to figure out what to get people for Hannukah/Christmas/Winterfest, but then I realized I am not ready to even begin that drudgery (It's drudgery because I make a spreadsheet, and spreadsheets stress me out).
If the Mariah Carey song "All I want for Christmas is You" is correct, I'm not sure what I want for Christmas. Usually, the "You" here would be a good romantic comedy, but I already purchased The Proposal. In the past, there were many holiday seasons where the "You" was a digital camera, but I got one for myself for my college graduation.
Now that I'm an adult, "You" might actually refer to a non-material item. More than ever, as all my friends move away from me geographically, all I want is to be able to hold on to the ones that I love, just a little bit closer. Nina Simone felt that being close to one another could've prevented MLK's assassination (debatable, Nina), so I feel like I'm on solid moral ground.
So if I love you you, come close, bring me Pepto-Bismol, and don't mention Lasagna and Snickers in the same sentence.
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