Saturday, September 19, 2015
I saw a pigeon dying in the middle of the turn lane on La Brea this afternoon. I sat at a red light and watched its wings flapping, its efforts to get up, the cars flying by, my eyes pricking with tears.
I don't want to talk about the circus, The Clown, The HP Destroyer, The Ayn Rand Lover, The Texan, The Lethargic Scion, or The Big Guy.
It makes me tired and irritable that all the people I know eat or smoke marijuana products with ease, while I and the other people I know in similar circumstances have to gird our loins daily to deal with the above circus.
Why don't you travel with Sophie to other states? someone asked last night at a party. Because it's a felony to transport marijuana, and I do not trust that if caught, the Powers That Be would be reasonable and let me remain Sophie's conservator, I said.
Sunlight. Broken windows. Dark rooms.
There's still illumination.