Share Your Bananas, Don't Be An Asshole

I am working on another post, but in the meantime, I'm at the office doing some work I neglected yesterday afternoon.  I opted to pull a Don Draper at lunch with a vendor, well, I guess he's a friend, too, and I figured it was probably better not to return to the office than to show up completely wrecked on a slow Friday afternoon. Perhaps I should have eaten the whole lobster roll instead of just picking out the lobster and only eating that.  The bread might have been a good idea, I suppose. Okay, maybe the fourth glass of wine was a questionable decision, too.

So then I inflicted my late, babbling, drunken self on my friend Emily, who plugged my piehole with fried bar food before toting me off to Governor's Island to see some concert or other.

My feet hurt from stomping around in espadrilles all day yesterday.

And right now I'm too brainfried to gather my thoughts into writing a simple production schedule, much less a blog post.

I did manage to pick up my suitcase from Harry over at Lexington Luggage, where they did an absolutely miraculous job repairing the zipper on my Samsonite.  Those fuckers at the TSA did a number on it, and the last time I used it I had to hold my breath in JFK, as I was certain I would see my wheelie come down the conveyor in a bin, with my underpants and a dozen hotel-sized bottles of Aveda shampoo and conditioner scattered around it.

*****

And for the record, something on PostSecret TOTALLY made me cry this week.

UPDATE:  Oh, fuck it. After an afternoon nap that involved totally weird crap like my sister getting married in a church with Dad there in attendance (her husband died in a motorcycle accident in 2006, Dad in 2007), and me in trying to find the right dress to wear and putting things on and tearing things off in a frenzy, and waking up in a sweat wondering why Dad has showed up in two dreams in the last month after having kept silent for the last nearly two years, then immediately thinking of that damned PostSecret card, I'll just put the fucking thing up. (I can't figure out what the 1970's-era T-top white Corvette meant, either, other than that one of my brothers used to have one.)

Here's what I found on PostSecret.  So it's a fantasy. Who cares? It meant something to me: