Dead in the Head

Becca was in the city for the weekend and she ran me ragged. We worked through Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride in installments, cooked up some dense, cheese-buried seafood thing with potato chunks that had no right to be as good as it was, and spent a properly loose shisha night with the crew—drinks, somebody’s thumb got broken at some point, and a playlist of my own selection that would make any indie-rock DJ in this city weep with professional envy.

Now I’m dead. Lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, running out the clock until The Simpsons. National Stare-at-the-Ceiling Day. Come join me.