These days I don't do much around here. That includes worrying about not doing much. Songs go unwritten. Weeds grow.
Over a lifetime I've bought a lot of Rust Oleum. A lot. Now I find myself siding with that idiot, Mike, on American Pickers- I love rust. Oh, I don't have anything against Mike. I don't know Mike. I'm just annoyed when I know more about junk than he does. Not only that, he's frequently disrespectful to Danielle. Let's face it, we only watch AP for Danni. I'm not even gonna bother with Frank.
I'm pretty sure that I've told you before that I lay in bed when I was sixteen years old, unable to sleep, worrying about rust ever finding my '32 Ford. I may as well have fretted about the sun coming up.
Now my hair is gray. My dog sleeps late. The wrought iron furniture on the porch is rusty.
I won't be here to see it collapse. So what? Jamaica and I hang around to keep each other company. Oh, and to take care of Angel.
For once I'm enjoying the beautiful weather.