My front door is a patio door, two large panes of glass with a sliding door. As I type this, the acacias and palms are shaking furiously with the wind, the sky dark with dust. It started almost the moment a dust storm warning raised the alarm on my phone. If it weren’t for porch lights, the courtyard beyond my window would be pitch black, the shadows of my neighbors moving around outside like specters.
I wasn’t in the mood to drink beer and smoke weed with them anyway. One of my dipshit Boomer neighbors was playing some kind of fascist rap earlier that drove me back inside. My neighbor’s a decent person but overfed with the kind of Fox News tripe that’s poisoned so many of our neighbors. And so, a dipshit.
This thunder and the rain patter on my widows is making me sleepy. I’ll meet you in my dreams, love.