I Could Eat A Horse

I am back from busking on a Saturday night that somehow produced about 35 bucks, helped greatly by a twenty dollar bill from someone, who hid it under the ones.
I believe it was a couple who came over and asked me what song I had been playing, which was "Little Wing," the Jimi Hendrix song covered by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Sting, to name a couple.

I had struggled with the same anxiety over going out that had been plaguing me lately; but was able to set myself into robotic motion at the prescribed time for a Saturday night departure, and I arrived at the Lilly Pad at around 10:45 and played for what amounted to a bit over 2 hours for the 36 bucks.

I had a more optimistic view of the human race, also, thinking that there might be some divinity there.

On the way home, I stopped for a can of cat food at the Banks Meat Store, arriving just as the second police van was, with a short toot of his siren.
A couple of black girls had been arguing with one of them grabbing a wine bottle off a shelf, breaking it, and attacking the other girl with the shards of glass. A truly ghetto knife.
There was a puddle of red wine, a puddle of white wine (a bottle of it was knocked to the floor during the tussle) and a line of blood droplets, leading away from the scene and up the next aisle.

I arrived home hungry enough to eat a horse, having forgotten to eat anything substantial, during the day. I had some boiled winter squash and one packet of flavored oatmeal.

I have got some thick slices of potato baking in the oven and added vegetables and tomato sauce to the squash and reboiled it, adding a bit of wheat starch for good measure.

I feel better, and hope to sleep well. Money does make a palpable difference. Or more specifically, having had your music validated through the tip jar makes a difference.