I've been hiding out the last couple of days, laying low and trying to divest myself of my skin like a cranky little snake. I'm tired of being me again, so I've been pretending to be Popeye--which, as it turns out, I'm not very good at. Tobes says I'm going through "emotional detox" as a result of my recent decision to quit it with the pursuance of a particular fellow, but I find that phrase just too emo to be borne.
So instead, I will be Popeye.
I need to go out. A lot. Let's hang out in bars, people, wearing sassy, sassy outfits.
I spent Sunday at a play and then at the Casa French drinking pomegranate mojitos and making valentines and reading fashion magazines and being girly. Yesterday I had my French lesson and today I really ought to do my dishes. Although I tried to convince them that 8:30 was a waking up time and not a having a meeting time I ended up with a very early meeting, and now I could use a nap. And a pizza, too, but maybe in reverse order.
I sometimes wonder if you're not all one big McGuffin, but if you are, I apologize for your insertion into this particular not-so-interesting plot.
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