First Saturday
05 January 2009 at 4:56 pm

I walked to State Street (two miles or so), taking my time, looking at the character-filled houses, the yard, the story each homestead tells. I returned some things from my epic shopping spree earlier this week and both salespeople remembered me. One had been trying to figure out who I look like, and she came over to tell me that she'd figured it out. I told her that that's what everyone says. Then her coworker obsessed about how fabulous my bag is. Really, what more does one need?

I wandered around a bit more, watching the sky turn pink and purple and blue and bluer, and happened across The Hungry C@t. I'd been there a few times before, and I was compelled to go in and sit at their bar. Of course, my server was one of my regulars at the bar. I overheard him say to his coworker, "That's the best bartender in Goleta." I turned around and smiled.

Jaime texted me to see what I was up to, and when I told her I was getting ready to walk back to my house, she said she would come pick me up so I didn't have to walk to the house. That's such a nice fucking thing to do.

I hadn't eaten, and when I opened my fridge, just like magic, Past Morgan had left me raw homemade tortillas in my freezer, home-rehydrated black beans, crazy delicious cheddar from my local cheesemonger, and tomatoes from the farmer's market. Tickled pink by my planning, but feeling as while as I possibly could, I prepared the most Caucasian Mexican meal ever.

I made plans to go out, got ready, sat down, and spent the rest of the night watching the first season of Mad Men (it's so much better the eighteenth time around) in fabulous heels. If there's anything else I need in this world, I don't want it yet.

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.