I was in Nashville last week, where, as a friend of mine said, it was “hotter than a three-balled tomcat.” The heat in the South is truly, truly oppressive. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone – and yes, I am referring to AIR.
I am also referring to my car every time it gets stolen. But I digress.
And I change the subject.
Who has World Cup fever? Not me! I wish I did, because it would give me something to talk about with other humans (I have enough trouble with that as it is). It’s sort of like living in Denver and not being a snow-sporter – I am automatically an outsider.
I can’t help it. I would rather talk about my feelings. My feelings, or how long my hair is getting (almost to bra-strap length, which is the goal, by the way). Or how much I am loving Jakob Dylan’s “Women and Country.” Or the fact that I recently referred to what could have been an awkward run-in with someone as being, in fact, “super natural” – and the other person translating it as “supernatural,” and how that confusion delighted me to the very marrow in my bones.
Mostly, I think that I just love words the very most of everything.