On Thursdays, I’m full of the festive exhaustion. It’s nothing and I’m not complaining; certainly, I may be the luckiest girl in Puppetland to be able to eke out a decent living while avoiding a colorful stint in the Booby Hatch. Yes, I am among the most fortunate human beings on the planet: almost nobody is attacking me with fresh fruit. Few people bother arguing with me anymore and those that do bring me plastic dinosaurs of apology. Yesterday’s yoga class turned into a two-hour extravaganza, which means tomorrow I’ll hop around, yelping. These apparent contradictions amuse me. Please accept this token of my esteem while I attempt the fandango of the financially solvent, merry in the sunny meadow of overemployment: the Rakes’ catchy little tune about attractive disaster called The World Was a Mess But His Hair Was Perfect.
Someday soon I’m gonna need new shoes, and at least two of them will be red.