A few months into 2007, I was standing in a subway waiting for a train and saw, twitching on his side between the tracks, a rat who’d been wounded but who was not yet dead. A lot has happened since then.
Yesterday ended as it began: well.
From about 8 p.m. Thursday on, things have been rather good in the House of Grammarian. Friday started well, and as the day progressed, I found at my work sympathetic colleagues, colleagues who sing terrible songs from the 90s to me from across the aisle in the reference section at Border’s Books, colleagues who rib me like brothers do, colleagues who give me the giggles, colleagues who actually understand this stuff and are willing to explain it to me. Good eggs, these people.
Later, I ended my workweek as I sometimes like to — with, er, colleagues. I’m thankful I don’t have a spouse or children to rush home to, for I truly enjoy an occasional Friday happy hour wherein we can decompress, bitch about how things are done and expound on how they can be better. Frankly I spend so much of my time thinking about work that having some closure at the end of the week does good things for my psyche.
Much later, away from Wall Street, after tremendous revelations, after thinking I had no energy left to revel, after laughing so hard my face turned “tomato!” red, after meeting yet another friendly Ben, after being hoisted from the ground and hugged uncomfortably and hilariously, after seeing impersonations that should be filmed, after talking about Texas and Colorado and Romney and McCain and Obama and Leonard Cohen, after speculating about the fate of America’s attention span and the tastiness of various nuts, I collapsed into bed and slept some.
And now there’s tonight, which promises to include many sentences that begin with “your mom” and untold dudepack antics.
So, yeah. I’m liking the Year of the Rat.