so we're looking at seven years
Last night I accidentally broke the mirror in my room. Actually, I was daft enough to place it propped up in such a manner that gravity would inevitably pull it it down, after I had left the room. So there was this thick, ugly shattering noise as a million large, medium, and tiny pieces of reflective glass deposited fragments into the carpet. And for a nanosecond, I was like who did that. But I was home alone, and c'etait moi. It was one of those moments that feels strangely symbolic. Somehow. But I don't even know what that means. Later I watched Project Runway and the judges made a comment about a contestant who had used broken mirror pieces on his design. "No sex for seven years." He said he wasn't superstitious. I have my fingers crossed, though.