Change the Sheets, Change Your Life

Cari: "Hey, I can't think of anything to write today."

Beau: "You don't have to write something every day. Are you okay?"

Cari: "Yeah."

Beau: "Are you sure? Promise me you're okay."

Cari: "I'm okay. I just can't think of anything to write about, and it's driving me crazy."

Beau: "What are you drinking?"

Cari: "Beer."

Beau: "You're drinking Coors Light in a fancy glass at 4:33?"

Beau: "Yeah."

(he laughs)

Cari: "What?!"

Beau: "Nothing. It's just funny."

Cari: "I said that I would write something on my blog every day. I can't think of anything. Why can't I think of anything?"

Beau: "I don't know."

Cari: "Well, give me an idea. What do I talk about a lot?"

Beau: "Buttholes."

Cari: "Jesus, Beau. Nice. Thank you for that little bit of inspiration."

Beau: "Why don't you talk about how hard it is to live with me?"

Cari: "Because that would take too long."

Beau: "Jack London said you don't have to wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club."

Cari: "See? I'm supposed to write something. I'm supposed to go after inspiration. That's what I was trying to say."

Beau: "But, of course he became a terrible alcoholic and went crazy, and he was reduced to buying plot lines from lesser novelists in an attempt to being an author again. He eventually died alone and penniless. But, they did make a nice monument in a square in San Francisco for him. It's really pretty. I saw it once."

Cari: "Thanks. Think I just got the idea for my next blog...freak."

(The conversation above was had while Beau made the bed. He seems to think that all of life's problems can be removed or made better by hospital corners and regularly changing your sheets. I could not disagree more. I don't think I've ever argued more with one person in my entire life. I know I've never been more in love with another person in my entire life. As I type this, he is purposefully trying to annoy me by wiggling/dancing in front of me, just so you know what I have to put up with. Now, he's narrating what he's doing in the kitchen. "I'm going to have a piece of cheese. No, Sylvester, you can't have any. It's mine. This is my cheese. F-you, Sylvester.")

Maybe he's right. I should make the bed more.