Paris is an artist. Don't you try to tell her she isn't. She'll draw you so fast you won't know whether it was with a number 2 or a mechanical pencil.
She had some time to kill in jail. As it has been the case with so many artists and writers before her, being behind bars inspired artistic inclinations to cross over into true genius. Think Dostoevsky. Think Caravaggio. And then...look to the left:
Oh Paris. None of us would've have seen this fantastical side of you if you hadn't violated your probation. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my and the rest of the world's heart.
In other news, I was walking across the Burnside bridge at the veritable break of dawn. On the downtown side there was a row of homeless folk all wrapped up in their comforters like sausages just waking up to a brand new day. One lady was ahead of the rest. She'd already gotten up...adjusted her clothes...and went to store her bedding...under a large orange construction cone. As she stuffed everything into the cone, her pants fell down. This is beside the point, but worth noting.
Anyway. I've been worrying about her things all day. There's been construction on that bridge for about a year now, but it's constantly switching sides. What if she goes into the Rescue Mission for a little breakfast and comes back out to discover that some dude has accidentally absconded with what little she has in the world all because they happened to move the cones to the west side of the bridge. I suppose she could just walk to to the other side to find them...but how will she know which cone is her locker cone?
I have to go back that way after work...I'll check out the situation then. Until then...I fret.
19 hours ago