I woke up on the roof of ultra-mod Griffin abode.
I remember telling Faulkner as we were falling asleep the sky looked green like peas.
She told me it was my eyesight. Or the city lights' reflection.
Cosmic irony that the fog came in in the morning, thick as pea soup.
Well, we tried to override the weather with breakfast hot dogs, one overeasy egg each and a slice of toast.
Faulkner covered the hotdogs and the eggs, I handled the toast.
She has kitchen superiority because she's some twenty days older than me.
It worked for a while. It was a happy morning breakfast.
And we wanted to top it all off with a midmorning pb m&m run.
But Una was out.
Faulkner skated away to catch the bus.
And left her sister and I as accused emotionless Wes Anderson characters.
But she said it affectionately.
And last night!
Eight piece folk band at the merc.
The banjo player had a hot mullet.
And the lead singer was so loud we could here her from three blocks away.
And she played the saw.
And and and pizza. So much pizza.
Mountains of delicious vegetables and proteins.
Faulkner should add the pictures when she gets home from class.
Hopefully somebody gets her to a foodcart soon or she might hurt someone.