Still digging in my pocket for change. Ah! There...nope lint. Oh!...a ticket stub. Yuck, what is that? Here hold this. Ah yes here they are, eight little pennies nestled in a bunch. Your change dear. On what might be your two cents on me resting somewhere in Berlin.
You know that feeling forty minutes into a party and only three people have shown up. You get the nerve to talk to one of them and just then the host asks you to re-tack a fallen streamer. You're balanced on a squeaky wooden fold out chair with a beer under your arm and you think you might have just bent the tack? The other two are watching your back. In the kitchen the host stirs another cup of rum into the punch. You're thinking, why didn't I put this beer down? The front door opens, suddenly the tack sticks, looking over your shoulder, in walks Brigid. As she enters the room you notice the streamers hang with grace the lighting is just right and within three minutes she has you and the rest of the crowd in a human pyramid. The host is serving delicious punch from a ladle to each of you and when she gets to Brigid at the top, a small drip falls from her lip and lands at the back of your neck. Your arms go weak. In an instant the group is wet with punch laughing in a pile on the floor
i never *officially* thanked you for my birthday card it's perfect and we need to re-play last wintersession and spend late nights in with empty bottles
speaking of emotion, the milk is moldy!
was nice.