I'm backstage at the City Theatre, waiting for our second show to start, and I turned on the computer to write some e-mails, and what do I find? Not just one, but three, count 'em three wireless networks in range of my computer.
So I'm mooching someone else's signal. I'm a wireless thief, y'all.
I've been blinded by my own obsessive need to make a romantic connection lately. Re-reading the early-morning entry I made after this date (which really wasn't as bad as I make it sound -- When I'm half liquored I tend toward the melancholy and melodramatic, remember), I was struck by how crazy I've been.
Not padded-cell crazy, but that sorta crazy you get when you become disconnected from your life -- from what's important. From for instance, your friends.
My own folly was brought home in the best way possible. Several days ago a large package arrived at the theater, sent to me by the delightful Kenny B. The outside of the package had very specific instructions on it that it wasn't to be opened 'til my birthday.
When I got home from my date, I was dog-tired. It was nearly 4 a.m., and I was bushed. But the package was sitting there on my bed, waiting for me. I was so tired, that all I could do was peel off the outer packaging, revealing four brightly wrapped presents. Just sitting there looking at the yellow and purple paper, packages all artfully arranged despite their odyssey through the US Postal system, made me content and soothed my battered ego after the blah date.
I'm feeling pretty darn blessed.