Charly

Seen at Fullerton station waiting for the Red Line to Howard at about 8 a.m.

Charly clings to her 101 Dalmatians pillow, the last vestige of a happy childhood. Most people remember high school or college as the best years of their lives, but not Charly. If you asked her what part of her still-young life she’d return to, she would pick the earliest years, where her memories are fractured and washed over in a hazy glow. Charly longs for the days when make-believe was true, when the world was an adventure, when the biggest thing she had to fear was Cruella de Vil. Back then people didn’t know how to be mean. Or maybe they did, but their insults weren’t as harsh or memorable. Back then her dreams didn’t have to be goals. Nobody cared about what she would become, or what she would achieve. Or maybe they did, but they weren’t so disappointed when she failed. Back then she still had time, all the time she’d ever need.

Oh. Man. Birthday week. I am so tired from celebrating a quarter century on earth. And yet it has been delightful! Drinks at The Aviary on Thursday, Improv Shakespeare and Delilah's on Friday, Irish Wake for the Death of our Youth on Saturday--here's a picture of Meg as Sharon Tate, Leta as Kim Jong Il, and me as Madonna's career (all dead): 

Where did I leave off? Drinkingbird for 60's-style cocktails on Sunday, swing dancing at Fizz yesterday, and TONIGHT, the grand finale, Book of Mormon with my parents. I'm pretty excited. I know my weekend was ridiculously amazing, but I hope your weekend was somewhere close. Like, maybe 1/4 as amazing.