This morning was the third morning in a row to host a 3 am thunderstorm, and I’m afraid I’ve developed a routine: leap out of bed at the first boom of thunder, frantically unplug all electronics (fan included), get a drink of water while peering sleepily at the sky, and then fall back into bed, grateful to have a few more hours before my alarm goes off.
Unfortunately, said routine leaves me exhausted throughout the day, and when I’m exhausted, I tend to do stupid things. This afternoon, for example, I was making my way through the tunnel toward the post office (to drop off a package for work). A man walked by in front of me, and in the nanosecond of distraction it cost me to smile and say hi, I ran straight into a wall, face first. I know he saw, because I could hear him chuckling around the corner.
And then, making dinner, I left the stove burner on and promptly set and oven mitt on top of it. I wouldn’t have noticed until the whole kitchen was on fire, but my roommate smelled something burning and came to investigate. The poor mitt is currently recuperating by an open window, and I’m sure she resents me greatly for the large black char that has taken the place of her lovely stitched holly berries. Ironic, I suppose.
I just finished reading The Great Gatsby, and then spent a few moments basking in the perfection of that novel. The beginning and ending mesh together, as if the middle were one tooth of a cog spinning very slowly, until on the last page another tooth fell into place next to it, with an echoing ‘click.’ I sound stupid now, but I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that I still like Gatsby. I’ve been saying that Scott Fitzgerald is my favorite for years, based mostly on one read in eleventh grade. I’ve always felt a little guilty about this, as if I’ve had no grounds for my claim. Now, twenty-one, I’ve found my grounds.