Union Life is a happy life if you've got a Union Wife

Spring is here. I got a new sweater today. It's large and billowing and has thick red and white stripes on it. I look like Waldo, or a lifeguard from the 1940s, hanging about the beach right before closing, as the evening begins to roll in, and it starts to get breezy. Yesterday was Catherine's birthday and we all sat in the back of the Brass Monkey and watched The Breakfast Club projected onto the wall. I told Shaun, she should have made us watch The Sorrow And The Pity. Everyone was drunk off their face. I threw down White Russians like I did orange Tic-Tacs, when I was a kid. I slept in this morning and Brigid and I lolled around my bed until about half twelve watching Top Chef before emerging from my room to what can only be described as an absolutely, serenely perfect spring day. Beach weather is what Ben and I agreed it was on our way out to the hill--the three of us--to do the only appropriate thing to do on a beautiful day like today: get high, and bask in the sun. Brigid and I later did some walking around the city, but she became tired and cranky and so I got her home to nap as soon as I could. While she slept, my big ol' book and I met up with the lot, who were sprawled about on a red blanket amidst the mass human infestation that was the meadows. It was glorious, and everyone was in a state of delight; everyone I saw. Tonight is Itchy Feet, meaning I am going to get dolled up in my most fabulously ridiculous twisting and shouting attire, and boogie until I drop.

David Foster Wallace, has me taking my boredom very seriously.