Yesterday afternoon, I was walking our dog Charlie with Sam,
my husband, and our daughter Hannah. We were rounding a corner onto our quiet
street when a massive gray pick-up truck barreled past. The driver yelled out
the window: “Trump! Trump! Trump!” while pumping his fist.
What an idiot, I
murmured to Sam and Hannah. Ugh.
Yes, a total jerk,
Sam muttered back.
Fuck Trump, and fuck
you! Hannah shouted, giving him the finger.
We did not teach Hannah to behave that way, and quite
simply, we could not have been more proud.
“it’s a magical night at the carnival fair / in a tent o’erflowing with mysterious air /
awaiting a psychic in a rickety chair /
sits a worried young man with mousy brown hair”
I want it on the record that it is VERY VERY HARD right now for me not to post my reversed-and-contrast-enhanced version of the photo of Sinéad’s notebook that was shared on the patrons-only twitter yesterday.
This is me being good. Incredibly nerdishly embarrassingly unable to restrain myself, yet doing so.
I really want my joke from the livestream chat (re: hamstrings) to turn out to be accurate. And there is at least one other piece of evidence I can think of that tends in that direction. But I can’t see how that matches up with “spooky forest”, which at this point has to be considered a rock-solid clue about the next project.
