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.
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