cars that go boom.
I've been trying to phone him since I heard. There's cigarette ash caught in the keypad and I have a headache the size of the grand canyon. Who's going to take care of me?
My fingers have caught the wrong digits so many times that the Chinese take-away down the street is planning on blocking my number unless I indulge myself in crispy duck pancakes and my throat is sticky with panic. Canet; when I'm having anxiety attacks for you please have the good manners to answer your fucking telephone. I'll apologize once I get passed this dial-tone plateau. I promise. I'm sorry. I don't mean to trivialize these life-changing events - it comes pretty naturally to me. I have a daughter who likes to scream "Papa" at me but never "Mama". I have guests coming with no memory as to when I invited them or when they plan on arriving (Asia, I'm a terrible person). I've been sitting on a wooden floor for so long my suit lacks any life and I'm still reeling from this headache. Sometimes, deja vu...
The charisma was pouring from me at New Year's. I drank expensive wine with too many non-wine-drinkers, complimented Martha's bionic breasts and at the stroke of midnight I subtly fled to the bathroom. Too cynical and/or too terrified to commit to a simple midnight kiss on the cheek. I excel in tact, really I do. Tact and routine.
Recently, I've came to realize that routine is a very good thing for me. I've started meeting Virginie at Le Mosque Cafe every second morning for mint tea and conversation. I can't make it sound any less formal other than saying; by the way, it's not so formal. You understand I'm sure. Drop Vincent off ten minutes late for school -- offering a list of excuses to a tutting old woman in a manner that makes me feel less like a mother and more like a class dunce. Drop Juliette off with her father for the morning where I can marvel at how badly his live-in girlfriend has redecorated the home Jim and I used to share. Tantrum my way into a taxi destined for Le Mosque and empty my heart and soul over mint tea and a cigarette. It's a nice change to be around someone who isn't into emotional manipulation. I covet.
Ring. Ring. Ring..
My fingers have caught the wrong digits so many times that the Chinese take-away down the street is planning on blocking my number unless I indulge myself in crispy duck pancakes and my throat is sticky with panic. Canet; when I'm having anxiety attacks for you please have the good manners to answer your fucking telephone. I'll apologize once I get passed this dial-tone plateau. I promise. I'm sorry. I don't mean to trivialize these life-changing events - it comes pretty naturally to me. I have a daughter who likes to scream "Papa" at me but never "Mama". I have guests coming with no memory as to when I invited them or when they plan on arriving (Asia, I'm a terrible person). I've been sitting on a wooden floor for so long my suit lacks any life and I'm still reeling from this headache. Sometimes, deja vu...
The charisma was pouring from me at New Year's. I drank expensive wine with too many non-wine-drinkers, complimented Martha's bionic breasts and at the stroke of midnight I subtly fled to the bathroom. Too cynical and/or too terrified to commit to a simple midnight kiss on the cheek. I excel in tact, really I do. Tact and routine.
Recently, I've came to realize that routine is a very good thing for me. I've started meeting Virginie at Le Mosque Cafe every second morning for mint tea and conversation. I can't make it sound any less formal other than saying; by the way, it's not so formal. You understand I'm sure. Drop Vincent off ten minutes late for school -- offering a list of excuses to a tutting old woman in a manner that makes me feel less like a mother and more like a class dunce. Drop Juliette off with her father for the morning where I can marvel at how badly his live-in girlfriend has redecorated the home Jim and I used to share. Tantrum my way into a taxi destined for Le Mosque and empty my heart and soul over mint tea and a cigarette. It's a nice change to be around someone who isn't into emotional manipulation. I covet.
Ring. Ring. Ring..