What with The Extraction and the unfortunately coinciding conclusion of reading The Hunger Games last week, I've been pathetic. Overdosing on Friday Night Lights, which I once swore I'd never watch because please no more shows in which high schoolers are played by twentysomethings—and one must have some principles to stand on—but in a moment of weakness I tried it and now I'm hooked. What can I say? I'm addicted to good writing in large quantities.
I dragged Noah into the malaise, as is my way, by accusing him of being disgusted with my zombie mouth, while making dinner last night. And then out of nowhere, the music from the wedding scene in Braveheart wafted through the kitchen, Noah wrapped his arms around me, whispering, "I'm wearing a kilt right now, you just can't see it because I'm behind you."
We swayed for a few minutes before Ethan wanted to join in. "I want to be floatin' too," he explained.
As we cooked we listened to several parts of the Braveheart score, music so evocative that it still resonates with specific feelings and scenes even years since we last heard it, and all I could do was mourn Mel Gibson. What a waste of talent. Goes to show, alcoholism makes a lousy life partner. Noah, on the other hand, makes an excellent one.