It's hard to eat meat when you have to walk through the Italian Market all the time--this place that houses cages full of live chickens with their eyes pecked out, roosters, and scared gray bunnies piled on top of each other and about to become venison. That said, I keep ordering the ham and cheese sandwich at Last Drop. It's sooooooooooooo good, but I should resist. Pigs are smart animals. Not smart enough to unionize and keep from being slaughtered, but still very smart. Smarter than Emma Carol who tried to drink water from the tap the other day by lunging at it and biting in the general direction of the water (unsuccessfully). I told Celia that yesterday and she couldn't stop laughing. Celia is my friend who pointed out that Emma Carol has crazy eyes. She does. She always looks startled, as though the paparazzi has unexpectedly snapped her photo. I was a vegetarian while living in State College for about three years, but only because I was surrounded by non meat eaters who frequently hosted dinner parties featuring mostly couscous and fake chicken. Now, I mostly live on pasta and do not have any clue how to cook a chicken, but I also eat out occasionally and find myself ingesting animals. I must stop.
Started my freelance piece today about having crushes on strangers but realized quickly that I don't have that many stranger crushes. Hardly any. Maybe none. I don't know what the point of the article will be. That when you're single, you have to still exercise that crush muscle so that you don't feel so alone and hopeless? LM invited me to sit in on one of her classes to meet the teacher, a really smart engineer artist guy who makes electronic toys for his cats. He was cute, but...I don't know. I didn't like his shirt. How shallow am I? Also, he has long hair that he often puts into a ponytail and if we ever did go out on a date, I'd probably have to sit on my hands to keep from snipping it off when he wasn't looking. I am too hard on people, or, to be more specific, I am too hard on men. But usually, they deserve it.
Here is a photo of a frequent occurrence in my abode. Emma Carol catching and trying to kill this toy made of feathers and shiny things. She has about three modes: Sleeping, licking, and killing. Sometimes, she does all three at once. I realize that I am breaking a rule from my previous post and writing about cats. I do wish that I could have a dog. There's a plucky black dog with a curly tail who frequently pops into Java Jive with his owner. Today, I fed her a piece of a bagel and she let me pet her for approximately four seconds. The barrista illustrated how she will dance for a treat (the dog, not the barrista).
And yet another photo, sans Emma Carol, mostly taken to illustrate to my friend Luke that I love the cross-stitch piece he brought me the last time Liz and Luke visited. Liz thought I would hate it and Luke was convinced that I would love it. He is right. It fits in to my shabby chic decor. I do love my house. I would love it even more if the ceilings on the second floor weren't made of office panels with fluorescent lights. And I would love it if the bathroom wasn't the size of that you find on a boat. And I would also love it if I had closets. Currently, the second bedroom functions as a closet with two clothing racks (one for shirts; one for pants and skirts). Last weekend, LM and I were trying to figure out clever ways for me to create closets, short of purchasing a large cheap wardrobe from IKEA. LM suggested that I hang a curtain in front of the racks, but...Wouldn't that look kind of dumb? Or like I was about to do a magic show of some sort? What's behind Curtain #2? Ta-da! A bunch of magical thrift store skirts!
And finally, here is a photo I snapped today at the Italian Market where Padhraig was strong-arming me into buying basil and garlic to make my pasta more palatable. I took this picture because of the fashion faux pas being committed by the woman buying potatoes. Striped pants + puffy hat = What Not to Wear.
My ex-boyfriend will soon be leaving to conquer the Appalachian Trail for six months. I considered writing him a letter before he left, something like, Why We Broke Up, because, the last time I saw him, he said that he was still trying to come to terms with the demise of our relationship. But then I worried that I would feel guilty if he somehow died while out there. I couldn't live with the knowledge that my last contact with him was a criticism of his relationship skills. Still, he probably won't die and he might learn something from it and, so might I, in the writing. But I know why we broke up and I am always amazed to hear that he doesn't quite understand it. He seems happy. He has found another person to be his "activity pup" (an Amanda Bailey quote). And, he also seems to like her lots because, as he said, she is the only girl he's ever dated who accepts him for who he is. Here is where I pause and refrain from writing what I really think. I tried to accept him for who he is, but it kept meaning that I had to put my own emotional and physical safety at risk (i.e. travelling to Mexico with him wherein he decided he had to bring pot, even though I asked him, please, please, please don't, I do not want to end up in a Mexican prison. But he did it anyway. And smoked it. And drove across large expanses of deserted, unmapped roads where bandits love to hang out. I didn't die while with him, but I always felt like I was in danger and also like I was alone).
Tonight, I shall watch movies and clean and not write a scene for my play writing class tomorrow. Wish me luck.