Sunday, July 11

Malodorous Murphy

Showering with the sound of the rain loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower I smell of my wild cherry body wash, my honey shampoo and my honey and olive conditioner. I make a confusing salad.
My mother spent two years picking my name. It's hard to be zen about random pieces of offal written by prepubescent artistes with my name in it. It's even more hard to come to terms with the fact that I really shouldn't be such a bitch about things I don't know and understand, and fi-ine, it's not like I own my name.
Though I should.
It's a rainy Sunday and I have a neurotic cat sleeping on my desk, twitching at the slightest sounds. This is of course after she demanded to be let in by staring at me through the window with the most focused energy for ten straight very intense minutes. I hate it when they go all cape fear on me. I've been reading all morning but it's a little hard to focus. Falling in love seems to have very little to do with the other person, it's a largely solitary activity with just you and the inexpressible squirming at the base of your stomach. That and overwhelming gratitude for not having missed out. But it's not letting me read, it's not letting me focus. I can't look at everything in the world as a gigantic sign of how very fantastically ordinary and human I am, of how he makes this bag of bones transcend.
One way or the other, it's all about me.

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