Stephen Mejias

Right now, the sun is shining sweetly. This time yesterday, swirls of wild snow were racing from jaundiced skies. April is a desperate housewife.

Before I stopped to write this, I was chomping away at cold and delicious pizza — like Vonnegut: the breakfast of champions — drinking bad coffee, proofreading an excellent piece by Art Dudley (I wish I could tell you what it's all about, but that would be somehow wrong), and contemplating the sunshine.

"Are we rocking yet?" JA asks.

He's wearing pink today. He comes by, scurries through a black filing cabinet, and finds what he's looking for. I'm willing to bet that whatever he found in that black filing cabinet was already present in his beautiful mind; he just wanted confirmation.

"Hell yeah," I say.