Sometimes an idea

is like a sugar cookie being nibbled at by a well-mannered but hungry and mature-for-her-age child...
(lahk a shu-ger cookee...)
I didn't yet know of an attempted assault on the campus when I walked into the bathroom behind someone else. (I thought.) The stalls were empty and the plexiglass square in the ceiling was ajar, revealing a big crawl space, which gave me a spooky whodunit feeling. Maybe the fact that in the evening I attended a meeting of the budget for the county's parks is a better thing to focus on. But it also got edged out by driving around and listening to Tori Amos. Looking for South of Broad in the bookstore, but fixating on Girls in Trucks. (Upon viewing the author's face on the book jacket--doesn't she look like that student I briefly knew in Seattle, and I was the closest thing to a fellow southerner, but I wasn't really, but we met at a coffee shop and she ate a meringue and I ate, well, nothing, because I had no money, and she was a nanny for a wealthy family, and told me that when she first came to Seattle she got rid of her southern accent right away because it marked her...oh well, nevermind, could not be, she was not Katie Crouch, is this some kind of "I think I cross paths with writers complex" going on?) Sometimes, it seems better if life is just about eating something orange out of a bowl in front of a TV set.
"Have a weird day."
(Al, from the A Girl Called Al books.)