Not much on my mind, other than missing Prince. I wore purple to go out writing on Sunday. I live in Minneapolis, and the town is like half mourning and half partying, with a block party that lasted all weekend downtown and people over at his home at Paisley Park doing a vigil.
So, with nothing else on my mind, I present to you a bit of my work in progress from the sequel to This Little Whatever, tentative titled How to Solve a Problem Like Patch:
I nodded, and sighed. “I’m real fucked up, ain’t I?”
“Welcome to the club, Patch. We’re all a little fucked up here.”
Blink. Did Dean just curse?
Before I could even react to that, he was sliding out off the stool. “Look, panic attacks are a real pain, but you’re not alone. I’m glad you came home and not had to spend a night at the ER. You probably didn’t embarass yourself as badly as you think. You can’t be the only person in that group with anxieties.”
“Thanks, Pollyanna,” I got off the stool and grabbed both empty plates as Dean turned on the oven fan to help suck up the scent of glorious pig bits before Jonathan got home. He cooked, so I had the dishes to rinse and put in the dishwasher.