Sunday, August 11, 2013

Sundays are not always fundays.

Sundays are slow. Sips of strong coffee in between bites of buttered bread. 
Sundays are putting on blush and a gold chain with no place to be; sitting crossed legged on a couch with brief bouts of article reading and naps. Sundays are camomile tea in a mug given to you by a sweet friend. Sundays are for reliving each moment of that 
Jay Z concert at Fenway; looking up lyrics 
(I'm anti-Santa Maria/The only Christopher we acknowledge is Wallace/I don't even like Washingtons in my pocket)
and experiencing that level of fandom reserved for teenage girls with glossy magazine tear-outs taped on their bedroom walls. Sundays are simple, but not always easy. 
It's the day of rest and reflection on what you have made. Sometimes it's pretty and other times, you'll need to start over. 

Sundays are throwing a figurative middle finger in the air for all the petty mistakes 
(too much cake/not enough exercise/sending gossipy (unfounded) emails about his girlfriend)
 and exhaling a fuck you alongside it. Sundays are forgiveness.
 Sundays are the reset button of life. 

At Fenway Park after the Legends of Summer show. 

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