The Books and How We Cooked Them

On my way home from San Francisco I lost a day in transit. Which I don't attribute to poor impulse control, not this time.

Somehow visiting S.F. and preparing to go to London shook something loose in my brain. Something that had been feeling sorry for itself for a while I think, and immersed in bad memories and details.

And somehow, capowie! It just went away.

I grew up in a day, in a car-ride, and stopped caring about things I never cared about anyhow. For now.

And then, last night at dinner, we talked about making The List: a list simply to express to yourself (if to no one else) what you need in a person, should you ever choose to Fall In Love Again EVER.

The List sort of grows in size if you're honest.

And then it shrinks down to nothing if you're too, too honest.

I've always been the latter and all I need is this:
Someone to laugh at this stupid world with.

(Okay, this is a lie. Here's where I flat out admit it.)

The end?