I just took two NyQuil that expired in September of 2014 so if I die in my sleep tonight I'd like to be cremated and my ashes spread somewhere with a view, like the tip of Cape Cod, or George Clooney’s toilet seat.
With my broken down dogs beside me on the sofa I turned over the last chapters of More Tales of the City tonight. Included in those pages were everything one could want in a novel—murder, cannibalism, gay sex, straight sex, a stray cat named Boris—as well as some tattoo-backwards-on-your-face-so-you-can-read-it-in-the-mirror-worthy quotes like this one:
Laugh all you want and cry all you want and whistle at pretty men in the street and to hell with anybody who thinks you're a damned fool!
I'm almost through Armistead Maupin's More Tales of the City and I just read Michael's letter to Mama and holy fucking shit my heart is broken but also bolstered. Here's Sir Ian McKellen reading it as part of Letters Live.
Patches fell on Buddy while playing in Duboce Park this morning fracturing his left radius and ulna. The vet says he's looking down the barrel of eight weeks in a compression splint. We're pretty much operating a pet hospital.