On Saturday, Scooby & ZOINKS!

Dearheart,

It’s Saturday morning & I hope you’re at the market or reading a book or tending your garden. Peaceful. Not something too nice to be true or performative - just mainly that you’re at peace.

If you were here, you’d be sitting next to me (likely somewhat high) watching Scooby Doo (that is, unless you took the remote and… hate cartoons). Been thinking… I had a decades-overdue self-help epiphany… thinking about you has become my “happy place”. It’s not like you’re a squatter- it’s more like I locked you in a tower (in a tower).

It’s a problem because I don’t want to look at postcards of your place anymore but I don’t know what I’ll do if the creek rises and the flood washes away my journals. The ink hasn’t faded (I used good pens) but…

We can actually do this… wanna get high and watch Scooby Doo? (obviously if you’re not cal. sober, I’m not gonna stank up my windowless shag-carpeted van like Cheech (or Chong).

Windowless van? Shag-carpet? Like, ZOINKS, Scoob - this stinky weed concentrate is groovy - I don’t know where that came from (wft?) anyway… back to the (air-conditioned) couch…

So warm up your coffee, sugar?

Maybe I’ll make us some eggy nachos/huevos rancheros.

Possibly a scalp (and earlobe) massage?

Perhaps… you should draw me a map to my so-called happy place and I’m coming. I’ve been lost for so long.

Always,
-B