Today is apparently the day when, in 1565, Spanish explorers first landed in St. Augustine, the town I went to college in. It was this wrong turn, four hundred and something years ago, that led directly to my current residence in Seattle.
No, really. If they had never accidentally stumbled upon St. Augustine, Ponce de Leon would never have decided that the fountain of youth was there. And then Henry Flagler would have had no reason to eventually build his grand hotel there, so there would have been no place in town to house a Flagler College. If there had been no Flagler College I would not have been home from there for a summer to meet Pete, and then I wouldn't have had a reason to move out here.
Yes, this is how I pass my long, slow Sundays: in hand-me-down Italian jeans, working on the perfect spaghetti sauce and concocting elaborate historical conspiracies.
Friday night, TMS and I sat at a bar and talked about China, about how restless we both get every spring, summer, and fall. He's thinking about moving away this winter, which really means that he's gotten himself involved with another waitress/novelist that he doesn't really like any more. I speak the code, but I don't really care. Eventually, one of us has to stop running, and it might as well be him. Besides, it's more likely that when I see him again in another five months he'll have just cut his hair or changed his job, and he won't have stopped dating waitresses.
My friends are often so, so funny.
Last night Cat and I sat at the same bar, and I decided that many thing would be much easier if we had never left the third grade. It would be great if I could just have her pass boys notes that say, "Do you like my friend samantha? Check yes or no."
The answer was always no back then, too, but at least it was filtered through someone else first.
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