It’s raining, I watched “Emergency Vets” against my better judgment, wound up crying again, this time causing the cat to look my way in disbelief, and now I’m seriously considering the option of going out to get something to drink, because there’s no Crystal Light, no caffeine-free (why?) Diet Coke, and only one paper cup of coffee in the refrigerator, bought on Saturday but still drinkable.
I’m hoping that it’s benefitted from its stay in the refrigerator, and that its flavors, like that of either a fine wine or certain leftovers, have not only mingled but hobnobbed, and I will finally benefit from my procrastination — or, more accurately, neglect, since it wasn’t really procrastination that abandoned the coffee in the refrigerator but a maddening loss of memory of even the most mundane matters (except, apparently, alliteration).
The excitement I experienced upon “finding” the coffee in the refrigerator this morning was akin to that which I felt on a recent occasion, when I found $3.32 in an interior pocket of a jacket (yes, I’m the kind of girl whose jackets have interior pockets). Then, you would’ve thought the decimal point was non-existent. And today, you would’ve thought I opened my refrigerator and found Johnny Depp, shivering, blue-lipped, and in need of a warm blanket and a psychotic, teary-faced, matzoh-munching bum with whom to share it.