I was in fine fettle for the last several days, Gentle Reader. At Teaberry, we’ve all been gearing up for the opening this Friday, and surprisingly, given our collective head-meat, three out of four of us have been productive at any given time. This, in itself, is a triumph.
Therefore, of course, it couldn’t last. S. and P. are both lying down, weary, in pain; all my vigor and gumption drained out of me, like a leaking waterbed, until all I feel up to is staring at a wall; The Colonel is working on one of his pieces for the show, but reluctantly.
We may soon have company. No one particularly feels up to dealing with people. One of our potential guests is the lady who I mentioned way back in Post the Seventh.
We haven’t actually encountered one another since; I’m not expecting a confrontation. Frankly, I’m rather apathetic about the whole situation – I won’t make a fuss, or a scene. I can be perfectly cordial. I just hope that she doesn’t expect there to be any intimacy between us; her expecting — demanding – that we be closer than I’ve ever felt to her is part of the whole problem.
I’ve been feeling very Sunset Boulevard the last few days, in happier news. I’ll keep thinking about trying to scrape together a beau or two, and then I remember – I’m a rapidly aging divorcée, and it behooves me to act like it. However, it doesn’t behoove me, and it isn’t precisely accurate; I’m only 27, and while, according to all the stereotypes that I’ve ever heard, 30 is dead, in gay years, it’s really not that old. My mother didn’t even marry until she was a few months away from 30. Still, laying on the chaise in a ridiculously oversized dressing gown, in the dark, obsessing over trivia, and being ridiculously dramatic seems to appeal.
Pfffft. I ought to be working on one of the several irons that I have in the fire. Here, I’ll leave you with this excellent song.