Sunday afternoon

Shit.

I had a dream that I was standing in the middle of Eight Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea. There were cars barreling down on me and there was no way that I was not going to die. In the brief period of time-dilation I was experiencing, I realized fully that I had gotten myself into the situation, somehow, that it was almost nearly doomed for utter failure, and that maybe, just maybe, if I balanced myself on the thin white stripe of paint in the middle of the-

Then I woke up.

I have just spent the better part of the afternoon in Teresa's, a terrific coffee shop on First Avenue; the time can be broken down into several phases:

1. Brunch with Mark. Why I don't tape some of this stuff and just write the damn bits myself is beyond me. They're too good. Today's conversations went especially blue, veering off into porn temp agencies, animal bukkake and how to get panties onto a chicken. The omelettes were lovely.
2. Waiting out torrential rainstorm/waiting for my mother meeting me with Sephora purchases
3. Returning to Teresa's so my mother could indulge her blintz fix, requiring me to order more tea. My mother is often intentionallly hilarious, sometimes unintentionally. We broke out the Jewish Sisterhood bit for her, which she thought would be a definite hit.

Long afternoon. Although spent with two of the funniest comedians you haven't heard of.

Got lots of work ahead of me, but a head full of snot and a closed throat. Hooray!