I received one of the most flattering emails yesterday; it made me laugh and laugh, and I just have to share parts of it.
First of all, this is heartwarming:
“Every time I see something gross on the ground I think of you. I used to live in Chinatown so there were a lot of moments when I said to myself, `what is that? tripe? oh, Bill….'”
I am truly touched.
The email continues, “Now I live on the kind of street where fire hydrants get opened up and people grill on the street. (I hope you are not thinking, `how nice, what a fun community’, I hate that shit and I am the kind of person who calls the police with noise complaints).”
Meeee toooo. We are kindred spirits, and would be the best of neighbors.
Lastly, I am consistently impressed with my friends’ memories; y’all are good. My being impressed is directly proportional to being concerned about my own memory, which simply isn’t what it used to be. So often friends will remind me of stories I once told them of which I won’t have the foggiest memory. Then they’ll tell it back to me, sometimes in vivid detail. That is simultaneously the most fulfilling and horrifying experience. So I was appropriately moved and mortified with the rest of my friend’s email:
She writes: “The other day I told someone your story about C. She had said to you that mini cheeseburgers were her perfect meal and you went on, completely incredulous, that out of anything, that’s her perfect meal. I wish there was an emoticon for your accent, ‘Three. Mini. Cheese Burgers.'”
My new answer when someone asks me why I blog? So I won’t forget.
Thanks B! I miss you!