Gobs

For some reason I've always remembered seeing  ___ the first break after we went to college. She lamented she was already done drinking. "Beer is so fattening!" She hadn't known. "I put on, like, gobs of pounds." Why do I love "gobs of pounds" so much? The phrase roams into my consciousness when I least expect it. Memory is incredible. What will I download about this week?

I haven't gotten to write the past three days. I've been doing two jobs at work as I transition into my new title. I stay until 8:45 and then get a cheese plate on a slab that is shaped like California at a networking meet-up. Or I couldn't even muster the mental strength to order good food from Postmates. I made macaroni at Bundo's apartment during the best episode of The Bachelor that has ever been filmed.

Yesterday was kissed with magic. Our super perfect this-is-why-we-do-it field shoot premiered. Armie Hammer's wife made buttermilk pie, and I ate two slices at my desk while punching up an intro for the country's first defensive female college football star. Margaret Cho said her underwear smells like pennies and we erupted in applause. My eyes welled up knowing she can't say that on F_____ or K______ or M_____. Everyone grows bitter, they say. But there are too many things to do for that. There are too many loves for that.