I've Been Dancing with, Mr. Brownstone

Oh God.
There was a tally, empty wine bottles gathered from around the house and back yard and lined up in the kitchen the next morning. Eight bottles. Eight bottles, and three people in desperate need of hydration and sleep. Welcome to Poughkeepsie, bitch.

I had to run to the train to catch it at grand central. It wasn't what I had planned for my sunday afternoon, but why the hell not? And then this beautiful train ride, all mountains and greenery and overgrown little cottages in the upstate countryside, arriving to find two mad men picking me up at the train station and the feeling that it was all truly beat. The driver with his straw cowboy hat and looking so much the vacation getaway personified compared to when I'd last seen him in the City. Them having spent the past day in the backyard, drinking and reminiscing and not having a care in the world even when it was so sad. I picked right up where they were at and suddenly all was well with the world and wasn't this red wine particularly splendid? So we spent the setting sun in the backyard of this late 19th century house in historic Poh-Kippsy, drinking wine and deciding that handrolled cigarettes were infinitely better than Newports.

John, the man in the straw hat and whose house we were now staying at, seems the ideal of ideals. A place in the city, a place in the country. A proper job and button down shirts, a garden in progress and a charming house in need of tlc. A wine cellar in the basement, infinite smarts, and more goodness in his heart than the soft eyes can convey. All that was missing, he said, was that special someone. And I don't know how often I've seen this. The good guys never get the girl, and what on earth is wrong with the girls that they don't get that? (and shouldn't I be able to answer that, being one of the ones who never gets it?)

In other news, the boys had proceeded to kill a poor bird before I got there. It had broken a leg, or something, and they had put it on something soft in the bathroom, so as to nurse it back to health (or whatever), because they love all living things and want only the best for Everyone. By the time I got there, the poor thing had scrambled from its soft spot and drowned in the toilet. Heaven help me, I couldn't help but laugh.

I return home with inexplicable bruises on my body, dirt under my fingernails, and a creeping tiredness in me. But I am glad I went, because I never regret any adventure I take, and it's good to be reminded of that. When Life asks, the answer should always be Why the hell not. Even if you end up with eight empty bottles and grass in your hair.