My blind guy is going apeshit on a bag of chicharrones and when I turn to look at him he is covered all over on his shirt front with crumbs. I am so oddly curious about this act that I watch as he has his eyes closed and slowly attacks each snack, taking tiny bites (yet each crunch with the sound of a million dying chicharrones, it's like an earthquake in here); he is just so happy with his messy-ass blind self. It is pretty disgusting, seriously.
Also, he has me read to him daily the diaries of people who crossed the wagon trails during the 1850s-1860s, during the Gold Rush, and now I know far too much about it and my throat is sore from reading for hours on end.
Come live with me, Molly. Work with my blind man. It's fun!
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