I told you that breeze on Sunday afternoon meant something. I worked seven and a half hours yesterday without batting an eye and then I came home, did my laundry, and popped in Angels in America.
Fuck Joe Pitt. Seriously. And FUCK Louis. Fuck them both. There is no hate in my heart for the Roy Cohn of this play, but dammit there sure is hate for Joe and Louis.
All I can say about this miniseries (the first three hours of which I watched last night) is that it feels like an epic event while I watch it. I feel as though I'm tapped into something much larger than myself. This one of the most important things I've ever seen. I've read it at least twice already, but this is some kind of incredible achievement.
After the first half, Brittney and Cyn came over and we drank two bottles of wine on my porch. It was great fun. Then I got out my comforter and put it back on the bed. It was so warm and snuggly. To think a week ago I was having trouble sleeping because it was so damned hot. I think that's the main thing about winter. In the summer, I toss and turn. I can't get comfortable because I can't get cool. In winter, I can sleep normally. Turn the fire up. Toss on the blankets.
God bless Starbucks coffee at home.