Life is pain. Life is tragedy and a dwindling pile of cookies and the plaintive, distant cries of a stranger floating to you through an open window late at night--"Rondo! Man! Where the fuck you goin'? What're you at? I gotta piss, man. C'mon."
Thank god I have FreeCell and the DSM-IV and Sarah McLachlan to see me through the dark times like this. And by dark I mean "2:41 a.m." Because I am over Enrique. He can keep the $18,000 he owes me for his liposuction surgery. I wouldn't take him back now even if he came crawling up to my window in the small hours and drove his fist through the glass and then fell inside, bloody and stupid, and made a mess on my floor. Sure, okay, I did that *one* time, but he was reciting T.S. Eliot. It seemed charming then.
But now it's time to sleep. For as the great John Ashbery says, "Thus it was the laborious leopard pirated more than one freedom hymn. / Kettle boils, not urgent."
Kettle boils...not urgent. So very very true for us all.