Musette doesn’t work tomorrow, tomorrow being today, her Saturday, and another of my Fridays for the Saturday that I get to spend with her, leading into the Sunday that I will spend by myself before going into the shop at nine thirty for the company Christmas party.
She tells me that she’s going to make French toast, the stuff that we got from Trader Joe’s. Cooks in the toaster. There are little fruit chunks in it. I sure do wish those weren’t there, specially the raisins.
My eight o’clock alarm has gone off, and I’m sleeping into the next one at 8:30. But once that one goes, I’m up and publishing, getting that freshly pressed, digital ink embodied purpose of mine out into the pockets, the hands, and the brains of all those who are willing to receive; because I’ve got to tell you that these Saturday/Sunday weekends, all full up on Musette’s presence, make it hard for me to focus and get the words onto the page and into you which keeps me, thereby, from you, and that’s not where I want to be. I want to be with you, as you, enhancing both our spirits, our souls, and the scope, of course, of my own physical form which becomes embodied in the matter of my following as they embody me idolatrously, morphing themselves in the mirror to match more closely my presentation which itself is an embodiment, or better shall I say an amalgamation of all those who have come before me, or who contemporaneously influence me.
Click clack attack going my hooves all gratingly huffing it over this draftscape of what could be my highest liked and possibly most shared post to date. Cause you know, I’m looking for those followers, that money, and the blood rushing through my veins as my migrains go popping like pills into my third eye, burning the feel good effect into these bladed days to enthrone me Dionysian.
I publish the post and go into the kitchen. Musette is there. The French toast is syruped and plated. Coffee has been poured into our mugs.
I have another surprise, she says.
What is it?
Is it eggs?
I thought that I heard popping on the stove when I was waking up.
It’s not eggs, she says. That sound you heard was the wet kettle heating up.
It’s a show, she says.
It’s something new, she says.
Oh… The Walking Dead?
No, brand new.
Can we watch it on the Playstation?
Too new for that.
Are you going to stream it on your computer?
Too new for that as well. It’s the newest thing.
Are you talking about Star Wars?
I am, she says, a smile streaking across her face.
I got tickets for seven thirty tonight, she says. Do you think we’ll have enough time to get there after you get off?
Oh, of course, I’m sure.