The Final Four

Lordy, I am tired. I'm leaving Sunday a.m. for South Beach, stopping in Palm Beach for a visit, and then commencing my month-long sublet. No idea where this crazy-ass adventure called life will take me after that.

Yet I've not begun to pack. Anything. And I am so anal about packing that this represents a serious form of procrastination/self-sabotage. The most preparation I have done is cleaned my car, and I scrubbed that sucker from top to bottom. You could operate in it thanks to the amount of antibacterial wipes I employed.

So I get to MIA Sunday, move into my friend's pad Monday and then Wednesday momsy, popsicle and their friends are coming down for their annual 4th of July TEP-fest. We are staying at the divine Acqualina; so I'm not complaining. But I think I will actually have work to do that week, so I haven't quite figured out how that will come to pass. I suppose I need a laptop.

BTW, has anyone been tuning into HBO's John from Cincinnati? I'm so addicted; it's like Six Feet Under at the beach with a twist of mysticism. Rad.