Love is okay, but brings its own troubles. Me, I’m glad to be in the pasture now, not lookin’ for adventure.

July 16: inimical

It is for purely climactic reasons that I am inimical to remaining in that room longer than absolutely necessary.

July 17: orphic

I wish that The Great Fluffini's orphic predictions would hold true, because her hopefulness exceeds my own.

 

    Last week sucked. (No, this is not a re-post.) Beyond everything that's already been brought up--there was a mouse in my work office. It was, I have to admit, the last straw. A funerals, two days of jackhammering, the typical insanity of textual communiques, 100° heat with no air conditioning, ongoing crippling financial mayhem, a ridiculous dress code, beetles...it all pales in comparison to that one tiny rodent. That was just too much.
    It seems to be gone (don't ask), and as yet there is no evidence of further critter inhabitants, but the damage is done. Two fancy brand-new window-blinds, a Kit-Kat bar, and about 90% of my nerves: destroyed.
     All this havoc has led to some introspection on my part, and a prehaps surprising parallel has been drawn. I see frightening similarities between the annihilation that little Mickey wrought and the surreal, often ludicrous state of my ability to launch and maintain romantic relationships. Simply: I can't. It's just not within me anymore, if it ever was, to do the sorts of things that are necessary to be a partner to someone. I don't even think that I want to, if I was capable. The idea of it is more nauseating and disheartening than it is appealing.
     I'm just done.
     So, I'll still look--because that's probably just human nature. And maybe I'll dream. But, beyond that...no. If I have to do anything beyond that, I'll just write.
     So, thanks, Ralph.

[The title quotation is by Ann Wadsworth, from her amazing novel, Light, Coming Back.]