Last night I drove out to Richmond around midnight. I haven't done that in a while. Happy was in the back seat. It was her first time there, complete with the requisite trip to Timmy Ho's. All three of the doughnuts I wanted were actually there. I got a small carton of milk to drink with the first two, (saving the last for morning, of course) and we walked along the dyke. I didn't see any rabbits, but it was dark. On the river there were chunks of large, grey matter moving with the current. They kept up with me as I walked. I couldn't figure out what they were. Ice? Styrofoam? I hoped they were ice.
This morning I ate the third doughnut on my way to Pilates. Do I have to capitalize Pilates? I think I do.
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There are pleasent parts of Richmond? Is that how you spell pleasent? Plesent. Pleseant. They all look wrong.
that's because it's pleasant.
It's an aquired taste, and you need to have been young and bored and desperate for years of your life to acquire it, but yes, there are pleasant (my guess?) parts of Richmond. Of course, a lot of the really great stuff there is disappearing, but there's an alien kind of beauty to the changes, too. It's the same way I feel about Los Angeles, only less concentrated.
Aaa! Sachi got there first.
But I was right! (Rare).
HEE HEE. WE'RE ALL HERE.
I'm the host! ._.
I'm the chalice.
Is that a communion joke? I'm already over my head... Damn you. And your sparkling wit.
It was, but it was sort of stupid since I've never been to church in my life. Damn my parents for raising me without the comfort of religion!
I went with friends and their parents when I was little. It was always embarrassing. And sometimes scary.
The thing I hate most is that weird response thing they do... what is it called? When the priest says something which is a cue for everyone to say something in automatic response, like "blessed be our lord" or something like that. What comfort is there in that, really?
They always asked for anyone new to stand up and say hello. I always had to. Once, the priest asked me where I was from. With what I thought was a nicely detached, casual air, I said "oh... around here". I was six or seven. Of course, the whole place was in hysterics. Stupid humour-starved church.
Poor Nernie! Let it be a lesson to you: should anyone ask you a question that you know is being asked for the sole purpose of providing amusement for a crowd of Christians, don't answer it.
Sigh. Good call.
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