Venetian eyelids

Karen Dalton is in full effect at the Jessie apartment. J'check du monde--a sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly article--has been ripped through my printer at a breakneck pace, fingers wobbling on keys to print these wise words as quick as possible, and promptly taped to the wall above my head. Run, Madge, run. Tambourine, Lo, tambourine. Loco Ono, you always seem to hit the proverbial nail on the proverbial head when it comes to prompt ripostes. I spent the afternoon sobbing and sleeping in my bed. My eyelids will never be the same. But somehow (by the grace of God only), Rabbi managed to woo me from the comforts of the fetal position and persuade me to make guacamole alongside her for a Mexican themed birthday party reluctantly penciled in for this evening. Oh the things we do in the name of friendship. The comforts of my giant flannel jumper were eventually cast aside, Guac was made, and I went. When it was all said and done, I ended up drinking WAY too many mojitos and telling a dog to "Go die" too many times for it to be appropriate as a halfheartedly invited party goer in the presence of a million anarchist/activist kids. I hate animals; always have, always will. A half Asian baby named Dexter dancing to flamenco music the way babies do just about threw me over the invisible cliff of despair, but luckily Mama Rabbi took note and hauled me out of the living room away from the intoxicatingly precious gem, through the kitchen, past the vegan chili and enchilada spread, and out the door to untangle our bikes from a mountain of fixys stacked against and on top of our own. We rode for the better part of the evening, the last of the day's warmth fading against the skin of our own mojito induced flush.

I will spare everyone and refrain from posting pictures of my crying face. You are welcome. Tomorrow is a new day, chances are I will probably feel like throwing the industrial beet juicer at someone's face if they even dare as to steal a glance at the damage done from today's waterworks. Whatever.

Loco, get ready. I am going to maul you come July. Thank you for always being ridiculous and right. Keep shaking your brioche for the French. As far as the potentially condescending faces on the heads of those Montreal hipsters, they are just jealous. Cowbell and back-up vocals are the new black.

Madge.