Last Friday was a day that was totally great and a night that was totally not. I left work in an awesome mood, which on a Friday night in Corporate America seems damn near impossible most weeks. I was in such a good mood, I treated Billy to dinner and a beer out on the town. And about 20 minutes into our post-dinner beer, the night took a sour turn and ended with me pressing my face desperately on the bus window, trying to cool my forehead so I wouldn’t puke all over the lady sitting in front of me with all her shopping bags. I sat near the door and had Billy at the ready in case I needed to make a run for it. And I spent the rest of the night, and much of the morning, puking up my kidneys. And pooping out my upper intestines. When I came to on Saturday morning, I seriously considered going in for an impromptu colonoscopy, because dude, NO ENEMA NEEDED!
Anyway, I’m better now.
That’s not really what I had in mind to talk about tonight, though. What I want to talk about tonight is this phenomenon that I’ve been hearing about lately. Something about this vampire series, Twilight? I mean, it seems hugely popular, and hugely dorky, and so I’ve been doing everything in my power to avoid it. But Erica told me that she would be my neighbor on Farmville if I read Twilight, so now it’s downloaded to my iPhone Kindle app and I’m reading Twilight and, well, for some reason I’m doing this even though I haven’t played Farmville in over a week. At least the book was only $4.25.
All this is not really worth mentioning, except that today Erica called me, I’m sure with her credit card in hand, asking me whether I would be the third person to be in her hotel room for three in Forks, WA in early October for some Twilight fan pilgrimage to the promised land. And I was like, wha…? I was so proud of myself for spending $4.25 on this obsession, Erica.
And this is how I know that I love Erica very much, because not only have I seriously considered going to this self-proclaimed “Twitard” event with a bunch of people who care WAY TOO MUCH about a little town in Washington named after a kitchen utensil, but I’ve come *this close* to actually telling her I’ll go. And I only needed like six hours to think about it.
So Erica. Yeah. Consider yourself loved, dear.