wildcat

Sweet and sour soy balls for breakfast! The Lotus Pond by eleven-thirty, my hand thoroughly banged this morning from a stumble (and assorted cranky snapping at somebody special, sigh). I devoured: soy balls, three turnip cakes, chow mein, spiced tofu, and stir fried brocolli. Gyozas. A glass of water. Each and every piece of ever morsel consumed in record time while I read the Blume book. Apparently, before the late eighties virtually no one had a private telephone in France? That public phonebooths had to be everywhere and were something of an obsession, with phone box fairs? That you could wait up to two years to get a private line?

My loan has not yet come in, I wandered around and around Chapters for half an hour, secure in a bubble. Magic. Operating the entire world with my skinny little brain.

Why is it that you always run into someone on the bus that you've never really been more than an acquaintance with but has followed you down to your new city anyway? And you run into him on the bus and you have that painful period of conversation with somebody that you don't really care about, that you sit there and annihilate with your thoughts even though he still continues to exist? And he wants to see the comic book you're reading? I'm sorry, I am sorry, but we never shared anything more than a momentary parlay or two at a rave in Prince George before Matthew and I took off on some adventure to get away. It's like that repetitive reminder of your past in snippets of people you never particularly cared about. I mean, really. You could be made entirely of mahogeny and I wouldn't notice.