Sam Is Away

I take Sam to the airport, he'll be gone for two weeks. It feels like I am not there to take care of him, when he is gone. That's all. He can take care of himself, that's the good part. He grabbed my Parrot headphones as he got out of the car. "I'm taking these."

"What?" I say. 

We had an incident, earlier, with the apple EarPods, he said he was taking them. I told him I used them all the time. He got snarky, I relented. (They are, actually, his EarPods, what could I say really?) I took the headphones to listen to music in the car on the way home from the airport.
"But I use them more," I say. (But, again, they are, actually, his headphones, what could I say really?)

What am I like?

He is just as likely to give them to a nephew. Damn. (Of course, then he'll buy new ones. He is reducing his carbon footprint if he is recycling, or some shit. No, hang on, isn't that the problem? I'm confused.)

It's been raining.

I've got nothing to do for 2 weeks, just me, Buddy, Bear (Jill's in London) and Milo. We'll all be on the bed. I'll have ice cream. The teli is on, mainly just to light the room.

I play John Farnham, Help. It is the next song to play on my phone. Live. Full sax. The best voice, ever.
It is cold on the balcony.

Then I play Joan Armatrading, The Joan Armatrading album. This album has been a friend longer than all of my friends. It is in my top ten of all time great albums.

Then I play Tracy Chapman, the Tracy Chapman album.

Then I think some black boy porn.

Is that terribly Freudian, or something? Don't know, too stoned.