Saturday, September 25, 2004
Rebekah picked me up from work and we went to a coffee joint, where I, ever the rebel, drank a rasberry Italian soda rather than coffee. A father/son duo played us some jazzy music. I proudly picked out "Hernando's Hideaway" and sang a stanza for Rebekah, as she had not heard it before. The son of this duo looked like Harpo Marx, who I want to someday marry. That is all.
Oh- my neck hurts; I slept unnaturally as a result of the huge barbell that now sticks out of my cartilage. But beauty is pain. Rebekah admired my holes.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 9:52 PM]