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S and I had a counselling session over lunch today. She ate green beans with chili and sesame seeds, and I picked all the vegetables out of a bowl of tomato beef stew. (It was, unfortunately, mostly meat.) S and I agreed that obsessive compulsive behaviours could compound her problem but could also help keep her on track if we could just shift tracks. We also agreed, for a change, that it's normal to struggle with things. Not normal to be okay all the time. (It is good for me to remember this too.) All afternoon a large fly buzzed around my garbage can, attracted to my discarded lunch.
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I swallowed the bait and agreed to take the counselling job that has no defined end date. Maybe two weeks, maybe three. Maybe forever. Who knows. Shawn says that I have magical powers to kill off people whose jobs I want. I didn't really mean to kill M; I hope she doesn't die.
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The school was built in '95, and this year's graduates were all born in '95. In honour of this special year, the yearbook class is putting together a book that commemorates 1995 in all its glory. They asked me if I had any pictures of myself in '95 and I promised to look. I was not especially keen on sharing a picture, to tell the truth. Not that it's a real problem, but the yearbook should be about them, not about me or any of the staff.
Of course '95 was the world before phone cameras, and the only thing I could find was my actor's headshot. Me, all in black (very actor-like) wearing an odd expression that I probably supposed would make me look dramatic and versatile. That picture would get me all kinds of brilliant jobs like an advertisement for the public library and the provincial lottery. Not to mention Desdemona and an offer to sleep with the photographer. I neglected to share these memories with the yearbook class.
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