A conversation:

Me: [Hoping to boost my ego by hearing another's tales of woe, in my usual diabolical manner] "Looking forward to school?" For levity, in an even more evil plan to seem less evil: "It must keep you sane, in some ways, at least."

Him: "Yeah, actually I'm really looking forward to school.... classes are fun, and I have a cool roommate, an awesome apt... so yeah.... for the most part I'm looking forward to it." 

He also goes to school in Montreal, Québec, is good-looking, and has lots of friends and a pretty girlfriend, but he obviously knows I already know.

[Sounds of plan crashing around ears]

Me: "Cool."

You know you've reached a new, needlessly complex stage of your life when you begin to be able to perceive different shades of black.

It all feels so right when no one's there to watch, me slouched on the couch in front of the ol' idiot box, chomping down on greasy, salty chips, wiping my fingers liberally on the crinkled shorts I've been wearing for three days straight, scratching when and where I need to, staring into the bluish glow until my eyes cross, not noticing how not a single thing on four hundred channels is able to hold my interest. It feels so OK.

Then some sort of acquaintance -- whom I hold in light but sufficient esteem so that his judgment matters, and who is also a former object of surreptitious affection -- comes cruising back from a couple of weeks at his cottage on the east, east coast and asks how I've been holding on since his absence.

Huh. I collected my load of lemony-fresh laundry yesterday and the numbers just aren't coming up right. The tally:

While we were at IKEA (yes, snicker and sneer to your little black heart's content, but despite their Swedish origins, they offer a nice variety of affordable furniture and at least on the nine Swedes we inspected, do not have webbed toes, contrary to popular belief), my friends and I enthusiastically fondled -- indeed, one could have argued we were in fact molesting -- a number of down-filled duvets. As our fingers caressed the soft, giving covers, I was sure that nearby mothers were covering their children's ears to our murmurs and moans of approval. It was strictly a PG affair (which was teetering on a PG-13 as the four of us piled onto a rather lovely and comfortable day bed together and giggled lots).  

Toasty in the winter and light in the summer, one of life's underrated luxuries is a quality duvet. Before bunkering down for zzz's, I love the pre-slumber task of shifting and tucking duvet snugly around my body, the feathers and crisp cotton rustling loudly, as I ensure every square centimetre is safeguarded from the brisk night air. It's much like a lover's embrace, except it doesn't get sticky and sweaty after ten minutes (a favourable circumstance, I concede, depending on the situation preceding it ...), doesn't mind the occasional cold feet, and doesn't snore.

And as practical as my polyester-cotton slipcover is, I -- as I do many other things -- prefer my duvets naked, for that unbeatably close, intimate feel.

I love you, duvet darling. Let's to bed.

The dream is over.

Regarding "Salty Egg Superman", or Ultraman, she says that's what they called him in Hong Kong, ever since she as a teenager encountered the slender hero. I was inwardly disappointed by the lack of luridness in her explanation; she assumes it's the shape of his egg-like head, and as I surmised, his pupil-less eyes -- his entire being is just supremely eggy.

Presumably to distinguish themselves, the people of Hong Kong went with something particularly indigenous, hence the salty egg. Because we love our salt.

If one is speaking with friends at 1 AM, Wednesday -- much more accurately, then, Thursday, as even explicitly stated in the conversation  -- and the suggestion is for the outing to take place "tomorrow", then logically is not the outing to occur on Friday?   

People.    

Now I get to spend both days -- and probably the rest of the goddamn summer, as one of those vital friends is departing on vacation -- completely alone (yes, my social pyramid is exactly that frail). A season wasted, wasted ...