You know, the stuff habit: I got to hab-it. I’m contemplating hopping out of the train early and heading back home just so I can go nab a barbecue that I saw sitting on the side of the road with the rest of the trash to be picked up, assuming that it won’t be picked up today, or by one of the other thousands of cars passing by and oh why am I even torturing myself like this? It’s trash day on the other side of the freeway and of course like a dope I sit there and stare at the piles, including several kids’ bikes which I’m sure Calcifer could be riding now and other detritus of moving including a Weber grill with the enclosed ash catcher (seriously, people: if you don’t help me out here I’m going to go nuts thinking about it all day today.)
Tell them how I am defying good sense here and good taste by not picking through someone else’s garbage, because I’m not. I’m really now. You can get by without being so scavenging, I think. And yet here I am, having spent the weekend obsessing over an electric piano that’s a close cousins to the one that I gave up when we moved here. Because that’s how I roll.
Mike got to hab-it.