Am wanted in a goddamn breakfast meeting which I have nothing to contribute towards other than wasted executive hours. I have nothing to look forward to. I am not a break-ie person. I’d rather stay in for 20 more winks any day.
Why do morning people make not morning people like me feel bad?
I am not the least inclined to make them feel bad about going to bed early. What’s the point?
Why should someone who likes orchre over khaki be ostracized?
Or who cares if electric blue blazer is what he wants to wear??? Yeah. I know. I knew a guy who wore those. Heck! I’ll be truthful. I dated him briefly. Not once. Twice.
Well, I was dazzled by the intellect. I saw beyond fashion sense. Besides, who else would go to B-grade (not B-rated) artsy-fatsy movies with me? You know. The Hitchcock meets Danny Boyle meets John Malkovich meets M. Night Shyamalan.
Where the sky is turquoise blue.
The horizon seems to blend.
Sky stretches down and delves into the depths of the ground. Or the ground seems to rise above the clouds.
Merging. Whichever way around.
Just streak of pencil thin white horizontal lines crosses the skies. Uniformity. Zen simplicity.
With a light breeze …
Here’s one guy who can say the four letter word with an oomph!
The only guy who can do the – you know, quarter of a fish + 3 quarters of a duck word – sound profound.
Not profane. Profound.
Look, the entire Irish population of the world can’t get it right.
He can. He does.
Yes, I recall P … way back in university.
He was sweet. Awesome cook. Great note-taker + file carrier. Excellent coffee procurer.
Heck, here’s one guy who puts honey to shame.
He sends you flowers.
After he has written a poem to go with it.
After he has walked you home.
After he has bought you coffee.
After he has cooked dinner.
After he has invited you.
Got the point? Can’t argue with ‘sweet’. Too ‘sweet’.
And that’s the whole problem. I don’t do sweet. Sigh.
If only he had an Irish accent instead of a goddamn Australian one, his Irish red hair, freckles and niceties …
I still have P‘s photo on the beach in St. Kilda after all this years stuck on my memo board. Don’t look at it much. Probably just once a year when we say our annual ‘hellos’.
P is momentarily 21 (I think – he was older than me – that much I know) in my memory.
On my memo board. In the photo.
I got published recently and quoted wrongly. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!
I hate editors. They have no business editing for clarity. All they have done is messed it up. The message / quote is now 180 degrees upside down! And there is nothing I can do about it. I mean why bother asking me for a quote if you were going to write whatever suits you anyways? why? why? why?
.I ought to sleep. I haven’t been to work since …
So, it’s been a tough 48 hours or so. I’ve got a date on tomorrow night. With a girl. I hope that’s canceled. I’m not a date person either.
Maybe I should try. Being a date person.
Maybe I should try. ‘Sweet’.
Maybe I should try. Pondicherry this December.
hmmm… but M. Night Shyamalan’s not exactly ‘sweet’ is he?
oh well, let’s just <space out> for a bit and let life figure itself out for a bit.