I had an interesting day. Usually I don't have interesting days, because I wake up circa noon o'clock and go back to sleep at 7 PM, which leaves a very small window for interesting things to happen. But today, I got up at 6, because I like to sing loudly in the shower, and that's only fun to do if one's roommate is still sleeping.
Oh, and it's my birthday. I had forgotten about it until last week, but as soon as I found out, I managed to get a free dinner of steamed crabs out of my family. Then today, I managed to get a free lunch out of Joshana. And you, reader, have you bought me any food lately? Why not?
Anyway, a birthday is a very special time of year--for it is the time of year that people write on one's Facebook wall. Truly, I felt like a princess.
Then, tragedy struck when I was doing flies in the gym (it's an exercise with dumbbells--I know what you were thinking): I broke my iPhone. Now, usually the loss of material things doesn't bother me, but you see, when I forged my iPhone, out of mythril and silicon, I invested it with much of my own power, and, upon its destruction, so went my near omnipotence. The dwarves who helped me make it said it could only be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, but apparently a thirty pound dumbbell also does the trick. So how do you say fuck in Sindarin?
At the AT&T store they were out of stock (apparently a new version's coming out soon), but they did help me out with a free substitute phone to tide me over.
Things turned up again when Drew took me out to dinner--Asian fusion! Watch out! He got some fruity drink made with Schnapps called a Peach Blossom, but I was enchanted with something called the Bloody Mao--basically a Bloody Mary plus Wasabi. Not really to my liking, but God, I loved ordering it. There was a gross miscalculation in our check, resulting in a bill thirty dollars too light, but we were both too honest to take advantage of it, plus I thought it might be a trick.
Then, on the metro home, I was attacked by an attractive blond girl. It was a bizarre experience. Near white hair, cuter than all hell, constantly smiling, she came down the platform lugging a guitar, shoved herself next to me and proceeded to talk as if we were old friends, opening me with a question about my book. Questions, confessions, all sorts of information--apparently she was born in Kenya, lived in Canada, Mexico, and now the US. She writes lyrics for songs--she now has 67. She was picked on in high school for being the only white girl there. This is all in the space of two stops. And--I kid you not--she called me cute five times. Why are you so happy, said I. You're a cute guy, said she. Aw shucks. Then she kissed my hand, nibbled on my knuckle, and popped out the door at Metro Center. And have you, reader, kissed my hand and nibbled my knuckle lately? Why not?
Now I am damn cute, I know this. I go to the gym, plus I have crazy curly hair, and my right eye's just a bit smaller than the left, which is so endearing you can barely stand it. Plus I'm funny and smell good. But seldom am I attacked by cute blond girls on the metro, let alone Kenyans. This one's name was Uda (I have no idea what the spelling is) which means crazy in Kenyan and loved by the gods or something like that in Hebrew. In retrospect I should have gotten her number--she seemed fascinating.
On the way home I realized the top button of my shirt was undone--which, duh, is just asking for strange women to hit on you. So mystery solved.
The moral is, if anybody knows or meets a blond girl in the DC area--preferably named Uda but I'm not picky--around Dupont Circle, give her my number.
I'm also thinking about starting a writing group of some sort--where people can meet regularly to exchange fiction for commentary and criticism, because, like most sub-par writers, I have a delusion of talent which I need thoroughly chastised out of me so I can get on with my life. Interested parties in the area are encouraged to contact me.
Ha, and to top if off, I got two letters in the mail. I opened one: wedding invitation. I opened the other: the same wedding invitation. For a second I thought I'd gotten two by mistake--but no, turns out two different sets of friends getting married, with similar tastes in stationary.