Twirling, Standing Still, Flying

A marching band clomped through my neighborhood last night. I don't know why. There was a flag-twirler and all. "Ironic."


Earlier in the day, I was on a mission that involved ringing the bell of the filthiest sex shop in Chelsea while tottering in my prissy work clothes. Passersby gawked at me. No one appeared to open the door.

This is a store that sells mannequins:


I'm going to Scotland next week. To see someone I have not seen in four years. I may have officially gone off the deep end. But I may have made a jackknife somersault that scored a 9.7 by the Austrian judge, too.

I am listening to a friend of mine interview Phil Collins on the radio about breaking up. I know some strange people. You, included.