I’ve had about four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight, but my internal alarm clock rings around six. The flea market only comes once a month, and my body knows.
I drag myself around for a few hours, and buy some sweet sunglasses. I return home for no-pants champagne, kettle corn, and Arrested Development. The late-afternoon stubble is maddening. I fall asleep with my mouth open and my legs unshaven.
Like one of those girls.