Why don’t you have a witch make you a potion? I mean this with all seriousness, reader. When I was in Mexico City, I bought a tea to soothe inflammations. It was put together by an honest-to-god witch in a market that sold potions and spells. I feel really great when I drink this tea, which could truly be the power of placebo, but I don’t care. I chuckle merrily to myself when I brew my potion and sip on it.
Why don’t you install a heated towel rack in your bathroom? Whenever I go to Paris, I’m always deliriously delighted by these. Even the simplest apartments have them. You just push a button and once you’ve finished your shower, you have a decadently heated towel. Then it speeds up the drying so they don’t smell weird. Europe is truly ahead of us. I need a towel rack.
Why don’t you go to a concert? Doesn’t matter which one, reader, just get out and about and see some live music. Last night, I went to see Harry Styles in concert, and I felt so exclusive with my hard-to-get ticket. And I love him, obviously, so it was a great time. It’s so marvelous to be dancing in the dark with thousands of other people having a good time. It doesn’t matter if you know the words or not — I knew them all — and it’s just a wonderful way to pass an evening.
Why don’t you weep your way through What Happened, Hillary Clinton’s new book, with me? I haven’t managed to get past the first few pages yet because I’m still in shock that she isn’t the president. I will get over this one day, I suppose, but I have my doubts. We are in such a ridiculous mess with the fool who won. Did you hear what he said about Puerto Rico? I can’t get over it. So this weekend, to ease my aching heart, I’ll read Hillary’s book and daydream of the America we should be living in.
Why don’t you frame a photo of your favorite rosé so that you never forget the memories of warm summer nights in Nice? Or frame whatever wine you like best. I have quite extravagantly framed an advertisement for that award winning ALDI rosé. Gives me a smirk each time I pass it hanging in the stairwell. It’s so ridiculous and over-the-top that I’m worried after I die, they’ll put it in a museum as some kind of Art Pop revival. Nothing would traumatize me more, reader. I just really love rosé.