When I forget a pen

When I forget my pen I turn to the blog. Someday, I'll scan in all my journals but I find it so much more pleasant to imagine doing it instead. 

I'm on my way to Portland to attend a tiki party. It's going to be rainy so I get to wear my big grey coat with a hood. Rarely get to wear it in Phoenix. 

I'm in the airport, where I traditionally write in my paper journal because it reminds me of what the heck I was up to the last time I was in an airport. Yes, my email and phone location history tells me all that but it's feels like work to look it up. Also it's harder to lie to myself. 

"isn't that right, Ghost of Alan Rickman?"

"Yesh, that'sh absholutely right Mishter Gurg."

"Alan I'm shocked! You call no man mister!"

"I'm clearly mocking you, however I'm finding the depthsh of your oblivioushness nearly imposshible to plumb."

"I love you, Ghost of Alan Rickman! You know I chose you because I think people will remember you a thousand years from now. That way when future archaeologists dig up this blog from our ancient ruins, they'll know you were great even as a ghost!"

"Shplendid."