The inner dialogue of a sleepy 20-something
It’s 10 p.m. on a Wednesday and I am ready for bed; lights out, and Neosporin on my legs because I fear that the sand flea bites I brought home from Puerto Rico will scar. I’m thinking about reading, but also about Zebra Cakes.
The strangers outside are too loud.
I do ten sit-ups in my head and wonder what Wayne Brady is doing now.
Wayne Brady’s going to Broadway. Who knew.