The Last Twenty Four Hours Or So

I spent the majority of last night drifting in and out of sleep on Rachael's roof deck, half-listening to her little brother tell me stories as only an eleven year old can tell stories, half listening to the Red Sox get their asses handed to them on the radio, which was a floor below, in the kitchen, so it was blasting across Dorchester until about 12:30 am.

I left in a daze, around one o'clock in the morning, and met up with Tim.

I won't bore anyone with the details, mainly because there really aren't many details to be bored with- we stayed up talking about music (and porn) with a few people at an apartment in Brigham Circle, drove back to Tim's, and retired.

I had a great night, fifteen thumbs up, and I don't even know exactly why, but here's the point of the story:

When I got to my car this morning, there was a note under the wiper blade on my windshield that read "THIS IS NOT A PARKING SPACE" on one side and "SELFISH" on the other, in angry, red marker lettering.

Needless to say, I was horrified.

I'm convinced that this guy left the note, but I lack suffecient evidence to prove anything.

Granted, it wasn't a parking space, but people do park in this "non-space" all the time, and I wasn't blocking anyone in, of that I'm sure.

I was left with the impression that whoever left the note was pretty worked up over the whole thing, which doesn't make a lot of sense to me, and, in a lot of ways, worries me.

So the last twenty four hours have been an interesting juxtaposition, considering the tranquility of Rachael's roof and the rage of that note on my car.

The world is a strange place.