In which we part

i just had a very strange experience. my uncle stephen posted a video of himself feeding a corn on the cob to a cow. and he captioned it saying that he was dedicating the video to his sweet niece, c, who loved cows. and i read this. and puzzled over it, asking myself who his sweet niece was that loved cows. her name was right there, c, and still i was asking myself who that was. i wondered if his ex-wife had a niece i did not know about, which is possible because our families are not close. but c was my sister. why did it take me a minute to catch up to that fact? because i did not think of her as someone with a particular fondness for cows? because i did not think of her as "sweet"? because she has been dead almost 12 years and doesn't sit at the top of my conscious thoughts anymore? it was like saying goodbye again. a little punch in the gut. goodbye sweet c who loved cows. goodbye from my brain. (my heart still remembers you.) *

Told you Alec Baldwin was bad news.

Tinderbox

M has said a number of times that he would have preferred me to make a list, a list of questions like one might answer in a dating profile. where were you born? what is your favourite colour? cat or dog? coke or pepsi? and blah blah blah I don't care in the least about the answers to these questions. This isn't how people reveal themselves, their real selves. They reveal themselves in the slip-ups, the forgets, and in the timing of the revelations that are eventually made. M reveals himself in what he chooses not to tell me until it's too late. I reveal myself by refusing to react. *

Viable options

With only a week and a half left of summer holiday, this is the time of year that I like to imagine what it would be like to quit my job and become a Stepford wife. Coffee and acrylic fingernails and a little plastic surgery to entertain myself in my life of leisure. (Sip, click click, sip, sigh.) Summer ends, it always does. This summer I had a stalker, my first real one apart from the fake-accent English guy who used to phone me - when I still lived with parents - to tell me, repeatedly, that he wanted to play with my "nice tits". This modern stalker was more difficult to manage because it was certainly at least partly my fault he felt it was acceptable behaviour to leave notes on my car, to bring me gifts at work, and to send me dozens of messages all day every day. By the time I'd gathered my wits to see what was happening, I felt quite culpable. Although he has been quiet for a few weeks now, I still anticipate that this situation may not be fully resolved. M would like to address him, both "as a man" and in his leadership role. I strongly prefer he not, but this is a selfish wish not to stir any pots that have gone cold. This will reignite something in Semptember, another reason that quitting my job is appealing. Beyond that, I like doing yoga and having afternoon naps. I like baking bread and drinking coffee quietly with no one waiting for me. I like giving no fucks about email. Boredom, I know. I've been bored before. It does happen, it most certainly would. But how long would that take? And would I not, eventually, find something to do? Will Friday change me?