The world is a cruel, cruel place, nobody finds happiness, and Death is the trick answer to our final complex question, but, as I'm sure you've noticed, I tend to focus almost exclusively on the little inconveniences of life. Like Nic Six in London Fields, it is our lost teaspoons and frustrating ticket counters that set us [authorial plural] weeping -- the big stuff, not so much, eh?
To continue that spirit: a brief and conclusive dethrumming of the tapestry that is my affaire with DS. Tonight was it. So many times have I picked out the weft to give that boy another chance and, well, damn it, a girl's got rights, you know. I invited him over to meet my friends and watch the new AbFab. All went pretty well until everyone left, leaving me, him and the harpsichord to make dead wood more bless'd than living lips. I was like, "dude, totally my lips should that harvest reap," and he's like so young and sooooo untender. Awkward pauses. He then thinks that now is a good time to make sex talk to me like a sixteen-year-old faffing around on chat: "bend over backwards for me" and so forth. Ugh. God forfend he should put his hand on my shoulder, give me a hug, say what he's feeling or ask what I'm thinking.
So I tell him that I'm going to walk him to the T station [this is what we in the business call the Big Guns]. He recovers quickly: no, it is so cold out there, there's no reason why your humble narrator should trouble himself walking DS to the train. We are clearly expected to ask DS to spend the night. We wanted to, mere moments before, but now we are fed to the back teeth with DS's appalling lack of cojones, his unwillingness to put anything on the line, or be the least bit conversationally open. We tell DS that he is quite right, we cannot be bothered to walk him to the station in the cold and we usher him out the door.
Moments later we realize that DS has left his awful Schirmer edition of the French Suites behind, but as we stand on the freezing front steps in our Wallace and Gromit socks, watching as DS slowly slinks down our street and considering running after him, we realize that we are not in the business of catering to people who can't tell us what they want and couldn't pay for it if they got it. We are perhaps doomed to wither like prunes on the twig, but we couldn't care less and be happier. We are going to hold on to our money until the milliner has something that suits us.
O carissimi lectores, heu quam tristis saeui ludus amoris!
We are listening to Morrissey singing Such a little thing on Oscillate Wildly, and it is not helping us. Leave us alone; we were only singing.
* [shift in narrative voice] *
I polished off the last of the licorice jelly babies Mum sent me this afternoon. I should have gone to work to drop off papers and look at my schedule for next week, but instead, I went home and made miso soup.
Now I'm listening to
Thinking about: The mess I make of things.
Hungry for: Mushroom tortelloni with fontina sauce, material success, admiration, the short farce to perk the house up after the curtain's gone down on the tragedy of subjectivity.
Reading: Roberto Calasso's Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, since The Basic Eight, which I was reading to cheer myseful up, was hitting too close to home. Props to Ooh-La-La for having read the best children's series in the world: Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising.
This entry also sponsored by a rad IM chat this afternoon with WriterGirl.
Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me ?
When you know, oh
Why do you come ?
Why do you telephone ? (Hmm...)
And why send me silly notes ?
I'm so sorry
I'm so sorry...