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A Rainy Sunday Afternoon

LIFESTYLE

A Rainy Sunday Afternoon

caitlin rance

Its Sunday December 11th and it's raining outside. I have Cough Syrup by Young the Giant playing softly in the background as I type this up. The lyrics seem fitting to me and where I'm at in life at the moment, so I'll keep it on repeat for the time being. Lucky is under the table laying at my feet. Her neediness makes me unwillingly think about the time when she wont be there to scratch at my legs or lick my feet for a cuddle or two.

 There's something about Sundays that I've come to love. The laziness, which I could take part in everyday, fits so well with Sundays. I regret any time I've ever spent thinking about it in distaste. I also regret looking towards Mondays with the same bitterness.

 Just a few hours ago I curled up in bed, Patti Smiths M Train clutched in hand. It was raining outside then, and still is. It's quite too fitting. This is the first time in a while I've really sat down and read a good book. In trying to feel connected to the online world, I've felt more disconnection than I've ever felt before. Maybe interruptions throughout the day with M Train will help. Or at least I keep telling myself.  From as far as I've gotten in the book, Patti dreams about opening her own coffee shop. She's spent so much time in them, it only seems fitting. But then as life goes, love arrives and what can you do other than hop on the train and see where it takes you? She's traveling with her lover at the moment....

I have to shut the book though. My head is starting to ache and hunger pains are forcing me to satisfy it's needs. I feel myself wanting a coffee, a la Patti, but I shy away from it realizing it's probably not the best choice.

I choose some buttered toast and a bowl of sweet cut up apples. I've placed them on top of The New York Times. Theres a front page story on twinkie's which makes me crave one in this moment. To the side, and most likely continuing into the belly of the paper are stories on staff picks and Trump. I'm tired of reading about him and everyone else. Except for Patti. I don't think I'll get tired of reading about her. 

I love Sundays.