christo, wrap my heart
Hey, you all are sweethearts.
I have started referring to the cat as "my beloved." My mother thinks it's sick. My sister gave me a Lexapro mousepad—they were handing them out at the pharmacy school.
It was a tossup between reading The Life of Samuel Johnson and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, but I'm going with the latter. If time heals all wounds, then a millennium and a half should be just about my dose.
I remember people I knew in college who would talk blithely about their plans for marriage, how they expected it to work out one day—as if it were guaranteed to happen, as if these things just fall from the fucking sky.
