Escorts Don't Care To Be Haggled With

And a couple of other recent discoveries.

1) Making trips for a random, silly reason feels excellent. You have a mission. Like an assassin. Except, you know, instead of killing somebody with your ninja skills, you bus on over to see your friend's play and go to Humble Bagel. Adventure and a sense of (mildly trivial) accomplishment? Win. Win.

2) Never let your third day of being awake coincide with tech rehearsal. Sound effects and lights will blast your britches, you will forget who is talking to you, and your to-do lists will become gibberish. The TD will get mad about something that will be simultaneously confusing and uncomfortably tragic. Your incessant blinking will make people uncomfortable. You will briefly forget how to tell time and it will make you cry. Publicly.

1) Farmers' markets own. Everything smells amazing, people-watching material is surprisingly abundant, there are so many colors, and you even want to eat the things you don't want to eat. Except that weird thing with the purple bit. That looked a little jenky.

3) Escorts of central Oregon don't like being asked unorthodox questions. The good people at Candies do not appreciate your curiosity (however genuine it may be) and they won't give your friend a birthday discount.

4) Playgrounds are still wonderful places and late-night park hopping is the best. It's a perfect kind of nostalgia. You get to frolic and swing and play tag and climb trees (all which, by the by, are way more difficult METAL in the dark) and the fact that you're having so much fun takes away that WHERE-HAS-MY-INNOCENCE-GONE edge. Because this isn't some past-you enjoying this. You're you. Current you. You, who pays rent, and votes and whose former classmates are having babies or whatever. You just won that round of tetherball. You are struggling to dismount from the tire swing. You are it. You don't have to relive your childhood or something, or go back anywhere. That stuff can belong here, too. Gotta dig on that coexistence.

That about sums up the last two weekends.

(I am Jess, waitress and lava monster. I pay taxes and I fucking love bagels and tetherball. Also, I really need to sleep.)

Out.