Saturday morning I woke up early, and, still in bed, read: 1.) an essay about Amy Turner, a 29-year-old Sunday Times journalist who died last week; 2.) a Reuters report that Alex Okrent, a 29-year-old Obama staffer, had collapsed and died at the campaign’s headquarters and 3.) posts and memories about the friend of a friend who died earlier this month.
Then I went back to sleep for a few hours, got up at noon, and spent the rest of the weekend and the rest of my money with good friends—meals and drinks and more meals and more drinks and a movie and a walk and more drinks. It was a great weekend, and it wasn’t until I was walking home in the rain last night, totally broke but totally blissed, that I’d realized that my morning reading had dictated my weekend, was the reason I’d accepted gifts of dinners , thrown down my debit card with abandon for split tabs, pulled-out cash without checking my balance, and didn’t think about bed bugs once.