Why is it that I can sit on the couch for 40 minutes and notice the clouds outside and figure it would feel good and then get up, plop down in a chair on the balcony with my laptop, and have the hot Sun start beating down on me after seconds. Oh, and then I can come inside and watch the cloud cover roll in once more. Damn you, Father Sol, you spiteful shit!
Rachel and I were at a party until 4:00 last night. I haven't done such things in a long time. I managed five hours of sleep before my body decided to wake up. I didn't drink enough fast enough to really have a hangover, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to keep sleeping. Wendy, the birthday girl, got a book of artsy female nudes--called, appropriately, Naked Women--as a gift. At least one person or another was flipping through that all night. Nobody liked the one of the old woman with a large fish. It seems like a lot of people didn't bring gifts, which strikes me as being both strange and kind of rude. Doesn't that come with the birthday territory? It's not like it was a big anonymous-invite kind of party where half the guests don't even know each other. I was one of like three people who didn't all work together.
Today is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Wednesday is Batman Begins. More Netflix is coming in the mail. It's going to be a movie-filled week, it seems. Which is OK with me. I do enjoy the cinema.
I don't know what to eat today. Thought you should know.