I’m back from the wilds of San Francisco, where fleece is formal wear and it’s perfectly OK – nay, encouraged! – to look strangers in the eye and say hello when you run into them in the street.
As is usually the case when I return from an extended trip anywhere, I am:
1) Suffering from insomnia. Check that timestamp!
2) Deluged with work.
3) Mysteriously on the rocks with the guy I’d been seeing before I left.
As for the last item, well, here’s the best way to sum it up. Yesterday, when things became apparent that things were in the ol’ shitter, I had the following conversation with a friend on IM.
Me: Will you come visit me when I’m in the convent?
Him: I will if there’s booze!
Me: It’ll be an Irish convent. There will be booze.
Him: OK, then. What’s going on?
Me: Oh, my God. It’s so boring. It’s so boring I can’t even go into it. I’m bored just thinking about it.
Him: I love boring!
Me: Boy stuff. The usual: “I love you, I love you, I love you … I will get a restraining order.”
Him: What happened?
Me: I dunno. Maybe I shouldn’t have called him “daddy” and hit him with a roll of quarters. It’s so hard to tell, though. I mean, how can any of us know what other people like?
Him: Hey, if he doesn’t like that, he has larger problems than you can solve.