critical mass

From a person who used to write all the time, I've now become a person who reads ALL the time. If you were to come looking for me, you'd, more often than not, find me with my face buried in my kindle. Reading at the breakfast table, chomping on cereal. Travelling to work. Eating lunch at my desk. At the gym. Back home. Trying to fall asleep.

It's the reading challenge, yes. But its also more. Sticking to one thing, anything for an extended period of time is not something I'm very good at. So the project represents commitment and conviction and tenacity and discipline -- for all of which there's a desperate need in my life. 

But that it helps me lose myself most effectively is probably really why I'm doing so well at it.  

When I'm not reading, I notice then, that times have been grim. All sources of inspiration have dried up. Winds of change bring little excitement. Burning bridges have become easier than bridging them. Return of feelings. 

A trip is in order. 

Why I'm going to die alone

For her birthday, I planned to give Pink Panther, a thick wad of ecru business cards with the title "Professional Heartbreaker" embossed on them.  I didn't, lest she sends me back a pack that reads "The Other Woman."  

On Tuesday,  Smugface and I watch Avengers.  Condescending. Insufferable. Patronizing. Narcissistic. Single. Eligible. Smugface.  Nothing happens. No frisson of interest. No excitement. No fun. We talk a bit, mostly coz we are sitting next to each other and because its break time. 

Then there is Cuba. On Wednesday. With his obsidian eyes and unkempt hair sticking out at all angles and his wicked wit and his dry sarcasm and his whistling and his calm and his...everything.  Him, I can't stop laughing with. Him, I tease mercilessly. Him, I have inappropriate thoughts about. Him, I want to know more.  Him, who, I find out after every other creature on middle earth, has a girlfriend. 

On Thursday. Time to detox. The weather's perfect. Azure sky, smell of rain, green everywhere. Decide to skip the gym (for the second week in a row). Go to walk in the park instead. Almost immediately, I run into Dark Lord.  Stupid. Self-absorbed. Insensitive. Friend of first order. Dark Lord. Our talk is forced, perfunctory, stilted. He's leaving, he tells me. I can't respond. Or reciprocate warmly. He walks away. I walk on. Time passes. Slowly, the calm begins to set in. Thoughts recede. The aching black gloom begins to lift.  A smile starts to form. No sooner, a tap on my shoulder.  It's the Surgeon. Distinguished. Suave. Fun. Married. Surgeon. We fall into step. An hour later we're still talking. He says we should do this again. I smile. He texts. I ignore. Detox. #epicfail. 

Friday arrives bright and sunny. Nothing can bring me down. Still, I choose the most non-threatening option -- Junkie. Hippie. Boho. Nihilistic. Funny. Junkie. The movie is a dud. I'm zoned out. Junkie wants go to drinking.  I don't. I want to crawl into a hole and stay put. Instead, I put up a bright, happy face. He can tell. It seems everyone can tell. So he brings me home.  

Saturday, go to work, come home. Read. Not go anywhere. Not meet anyone. 

Sunday,  Repeat. No incidents. Relief. Bedtime.  Phone rings.  

Yardley:  "You really should go out more, you know. Or you'll die alone. Really. Can you please just meet this guy, he's just your type." 

Me: "Is he single?" 

Yardley. "No, but I swear you guys are meant for each other."