This past Sunday (Gaudete Sunday), as I nursed a hangover during Mass, I thought about a gal of Eastern European descent whom I once befriended on MySpace (Remember me?). She was (and probably still remains so) an exceptional writer, enjoyed the writings of Walker Percy, Ezra Pound, and Florence King, and looked to be a looker. She published a piece that really impressed me in a magazine that I regularly read, so I did the equivalent of Facebook stalking and pursued her, only it was MySpace–hey, it could have been Friendster. Of course, as fate and fortune and folly would have it, I sent her a particular message, and she promptly de-friended me. In case you are wondering: no, I did not receive holy communion. And, no, I never got her phone number. So much for keeping The Four Last Things in the forefront of my thoughts.

Speaking of hangovers, during the course of the night that led to the suspect morning, I think that I proposed to a former bartender. I pointed to my lips, told her that she should kiss me (*she did*), and then popped the question. (?) Some white knight of a male friend ushered her away from my menacing presence before an answer could be obtained. He probably did everyone a favor, though. Oh, blue eyes…

While at a wake tonight for a fellow Knight of Columbus (RIP, brother), a very nicely dressed older lady approached me and greeted me with the following: “You should be a priest. I always see you at Mass, and you are always praying…” I: “Oh, I think that you must have the wrong person…” She: “No, it’s you–you used to have long hair…” I: *thinking* She’s got me there…

What a joke of heaven if I ever become a priest. Right? Right?