Novel Theory

Listen up, imaginary female readers.

I have a theory that if a boy spits (as in, for no reason, on the street) with your knowledge and within reasonable proximity to you, he's not interested in you romantically.

So.

I am watching Rachel Maddow, with whom I do not always agree but respect for her smart wit and simple, conversational tone. She seems like a genuinely reluctant celebrity who just wants to engage her friends and any randoms that might happen by in a practical and passionate political discussion.

I have on one of my more random post-work-sloth ensembles tonight, namely a XXL navy blue Illinois long-sleeved t-shirt, a grey ESPN logo pullover, brown pajama pants that have pink stars all over them, the black dress socks I wore for my commute today and my sock monkey slippers.

It is 9:45 p.m., and I am torn. I have been home from work for all of an hour, which was basically spent de-frocking and emerging as a sloth, washing my face and eating a bowl of blueberry Special K for dinner. I so want to slump down ever so slightly on the couch, pull up my red blanket and gently fall asleep within about 4 minutes. But that gets ugly when Jim wakes me up at 1:45 a.m. to get me to go bed, and I am some evil version of myself so I yell at him, because at 1:45 a.m all tones are hostile and all statements are accusations. So I really should get my ass up and just go to the comfort of my bed. But I'm just so warm and slovenly here.