I think I'll turn that shirt from yesterday into a pillow, since Django has eaten all my throw pillows now. Actually, though, he's being very good for Django. He's gotten the dog yard into the kind of state he likes - completely strewn with trash, stuffing and bits of plastic and crap everywhere, and that seems to be keeping him content for the time being. There has been, amazingly enough, no further terrible dog destruction recently. Knock on wood. Knock on, like, all the wood you can find.
I came home last night and collapsed for about an hour, then did laundry. I used to have this weird fantasy that I would one day meet a guy at the laundromat but I've laid that one to rest. The only guys who hang out at the laundromat are either Latino, which would be fine if they a) spoke English, b) weren't mostly married and c) weren't so damn short or, if they're not Latino, they're scary freaks, which would be okay if they a) didn't have scary freak girlfriends already, b) spoke English as opposed to crack addled Madison county-ese and c) weren't so damn creepy. There are occasionally a few reasonable guys at the laundromat, but they're too much like me already: they keep their eyes on their laundry and try not to attract attention.
That's cool though, because I'm not really in the market anymore: I've lost interest. I've realized that there are far worse things than being single for the rest of my life and also, having young M gone is giving me my first long spell of total solitude in a long time and it's glorious. I had forgotten just how great it is to be the only person in a house messing up the dishes, for one thing, and for another I get to crank my own music whenever I want to and lie around and read books naked whenever I feel like it, which is most of the time. Being alone rocks and what I really need is not a boyfriend so much as a robot who will walk the dogs twelve times a day and then turn himself off or possibly into a Pilates instructor because, as I am realizing to my sorrow, it wasn't the hideous shirt that was making me look fat so much as it was the fat that was making me look fat. Damn.
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2 comments:
According to something I got in my inbox, all you have to do to find true love is to forward some spooky email to, like, ten other people. Confirm/deny?
Yeah, probably. I'm always too lazy to forward emails and also I'm too afraid that forwarding chain emails will be the final straw that makes all my friends hate me forevermore. It's quite possible that all my bad luck is attributable to an email I never forwarded in 1997, though. It told me I'd have bad luck if I didn't send it on and lo and behold. . .
Oh well. I have many evil faults but forwarding chain emails is not, thank god, one of them. Except for the panty pyramid scheme. I did do that one.
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