Ice Weasels are the Worst

"Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come." — Matt Groening

Breakfast this morning was Eggs Benedict at a nice little diner with good coffee just a convenient distance away from the pharmacy. I was fortunate enough to spend most of my day with Jess, who kindly kept me sane until about 4:30 or so. I popped open the crumbly cork on a 20-year-old bottle of port and began savoring the sweet aroma of a wine made in an era of Star Trek: The Next Generation, Murphy Brown, and a young, coiffed version of myself still many years away from his first big romance or the stereotypical teen angst of his first lost love.

It amazes me that there are no wine stoppers for sale anywhere on this block, and if Vitruvius finds out that I didn't use a decanter, he'd probably kill me.

Now, alone, I look forward to an evening of true crime television, a flush of alcohol warmth in my skin, and trying desperately to ignore the ice weasels again.