(Blazer. Not me.)
(Blazer. Not me.)
We were on the 7:00am to Portland cuz Jamie’s wedding’s tomorrow and before takeoff the flight attendant asked what do you wanna drink once we’re airbone and B turned to me and said, “Is it too early for a mimosa?”
(No, it’s not.)
I’m several hours into a 17-day work trip that will, if all goes according to plan, have me in New York City for the next six days and London for the eleven that follow then back to The Bay just in time to miss Bevan’s 64th.
Although job things will likely dominate the majority of my next two point five weeks I have hopes of breaking bread with faraway friends, seeing a show or two and, if my schedule permits, popping to Paris for a day.
I hadn’t planned to drink on this flight but it got delayed a couple of times and Alaska Airlines plopped me into first and it’s a bit bumpy above my country at the moment so a free, heart healthy glass of Cab I shall have!
Note: The photo above is for Maureen, if she’s reading, ‘cause, you know.
Marf is, all at once, a truly good person and an exceptionally bad influence.
Tomorrow gon hurt.
This evening, after working hours, Laura and I trekked back to our Covent Garden flat in a downpour-turned-snowstorm where we hopped out of wet clothes and into an uberX that dropped us at Balans Soho Society for food and then Comptons for drinks and now, in a bed brought to me by Airbnb, I’m recalling how throughout the night I kept thinking thoughts like “I’ve eaten at this restaurant with my dad.” and “I’ve imbibed at that bar with my friend Bryan.” and “Lauren and I danced at this club.” and the sheer fact that I have mucho crazy-go-happy memories with loved ones in mother-fucking London is yet another reminder that I lead one damn lucky mess of a life.
My name is Corey and I’m the author of this web log. I'm also left-handed, medium strong and probably craving chips right now.
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