LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Cutlery roasting on an open fire

My weekday mornings do not vary much: The alarm goes off and I resent it, Edsel and I open the door to 800 cats lining the halls expectantly. I trip over at least one of those solid assholes every single day. Hey. Cats are more solid than you’d think, when you’re kicking one down the hall accidentally.

I slop the hogs, make coffee/heroin for myself, then sit down to blog. Usually I open my photos from the day before in order to show you it, whatever “it” may be that day.

(Do you have to “make” heroin? I know in the movies they show someone roasting a spoon over an open flame. So maybe you do. Or maybe when you’re high on the heroin you enjoy a spoon over an open flame. I just have no idea.)

M’point is, today when I opened photos, I enjoyed the fact that almost all of them were selfies. Nice. Proud.

Screen Shot 2017-11-15 at 7.31.11 AM.png

There’s one sad photo of Kit, there, at the end. You can see I never did get happy with my at-the-bookstore selfie, as I took 70 of them.

IMG_1841.jpgWhat’cha doin’, June?

I went to work yesterday like a normal person, which you know isn’t true because I can’t do anything “like a normal person.”

(Do you consider yourself normal? Any time a man writes that he’s “normal” on a dating profile, I’m all NEXT. First of all, hey, judge-y. Also, hey, boring-y.)

Anyway, I went to work like the person I am, only to realize I had scheduled my Botox at 12:45 and my car repair for my accident at 1:00.

Pfft.

So the car repair got rescheduled for today. Not that I know it even NEEDS repair. Today is when they look at it. Give it the male gaze. They check it out now, funk soul brother. Right about noon, funk soul brother.

So above, there, is me going to the OTHER appointment yesterday, applying the ice to my head, there, before the needle and the damage done.

I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.

In summation, I got went to work yesterday and had Botox at noon. That would be a man’s blog entry thus far. Those two sentences.

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Oh, look. A selfie. This is me after work, in the waiting period. See below. Click here! You won’t BELIEVE what happens next.

At work yesterday, I had some of my delicious high-fiber oatmeal, because Mmmmmm, or Nnnnnnnn, as they say in the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial when they lick their teeth.

( https://youtu.be/m2tYvxEVreI

Sadly, while I was searching for a Pearl Drops commercial, as you do, there were 97 clips from General Hospital available to me, including one with a Leslie and Monica showdown that I really wanted to take time out of my executive schedule to review, but look at June. Staying with the task at hand. If the “task at hand” is to get distracted by “Nnnnnnnnn.”)

So I had the oatmeal, June says, and you’ve already forgotten. “Jesus, WHAT oatmeal?” Then I had my important Botox at noon, so that left me no choice but to get a luncheon Dorito Taco at Taco Bell, and why everyone isn’t just knocking down the doors to get them MORE Dorito tacos is beyond me. Cause, nnnnnnnn.

Then, Kit and I had plans to go to a reading together at the local bookstore after work. We were gonna hear Mr. Write’s new book.

We were meeting at 6:45, so it was easiest to just leave from work, where there were, sadly, no snacks. What kind of workplace doesn’t have snacks?

I got to the bookstore a little early, ordered a glass of chardonnay, and meandered to the back of the store, where readers read when there’s a reading, and that was the day you stopped reading June.

I found a book. I know! At the bookstore. And I sipped my wine and read my book, which in retrospect I shoulda bought cause now I’m over here wondering what happens next. I want to click here on that book.

The point is, by the time Kit arrived, I was drunk.

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“Oh, good.”

Seriously. I guess oatmeal at 9:00 and a taco at noon were not enough to take on The Wine. Holy cats.

So I slumped drunkenly in my chair as Mr. Write wandered in, followed by an entourage of admirers. I’ve been to several readings read by writers where they read at the bookstore readingly, and, like, when The Poet was there, she had standing room only.

But Mr. Write, who happens to be good-looking, had throngs. Seriously.

IMG_1853.jpgAnd, you know, careful readers will note that we dated. Not you and me, homophobic housewife in Haverford, Mr. Write and me. We dated briefly last year. He was the most “with potential” suitor I’ve had since my 404 Error, but it didn’t work out.

And now he was seeing me for the first time in more than a year, and I’m drunk.

He saw me through the crowd and was very gracious. “Good to see you,” he said to me, while people gazed at him. He really is a Mr. Handsome.

And his reading was great. I’d link to his book or something, but he is, in fact, really private and I feel like he’d be annoyed with me for being all, HERE IS SOMEONE I DATED HERE. HERE. On m’blog.

Anyway, the good news is, he read a lot of stuff, so I had time to sober up. And I thought, What the hell was wrong with me? I could have had Mr. Write to date for awhile, and I was all oh no. Break me off some more of that guy who’s hurt my feelings 400 times instead.

After, I got his book, Mr. Write’s, I mean, and stood in the endless line for him to sign it. I caught up with Kit’s life, which has taken an exciting turn lately, and I similarly feel like she would kick my ass if I splayed that all over yonder, so let’s just say her life is going well now.

Mr. Write and I exchanged pleasantries once I got up to him, but the woman behind me cockblocked our conversation by including herself in our talk, and I wish you all could have been there to see the daggers coming right out my half-drunk eyes.

Kit and I then sat in the window of the store, as that’s the place where you can sit at tables in the window and have yourself a time. “I’ve never sat up here before,” said Kit, who works 11 feet from that store, and how she hasn’t taken advantage of that table window table is beyond me.

The point is, Kit knows everyone in town, and it was like she was on a float. We’d get one sentence out and there she was again, waving gleefully out the window and throwing butterscotch candies.

I guess homecoming queens don’t do that, do they? That’s more clowns at the Knights of Columbus parade.

Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.

So, in summation, I went to work, got Botox at lunch, then to a reading with Kit after work.

The end.

Briefly,

Juan

 

 

 

Rearing to go

I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.

I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”

The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.

Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.

That made no sense.

Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.

I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when

BOOM

It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.

“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.

“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.

“Hit my head,” he said.

I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.

“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.

It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).

Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.

Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.

It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.

She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.

Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.

So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.

Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.

Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.

“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.

But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!

And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.

After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.

So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.

But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?

Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.

But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.

When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?

Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

If we’re gonna turn back time, can we turn it back to when I was cute?

A delight this time of year is discovering HOW MANY DAMN CLOCKS you own. You think you set them all back, only to enter a room and say, “Oh my god! It’s 8:30??!!” Yeah, no it isn’t. You forgot this one. Now how the fuck do you work THIS one, goddammit?

I gotta make my house more like Las Vegas.

I’m pleased to report that I almost killed myself adjusting my car’s clock while I drove, and hey, June. Unsafe at any speed.

Also too, I set my alarm clock back an hour. Knowing how I am, how I a.m., I brought my phone to bed with me last night, set that alarm as well, to be safe.

This morning, as my phone and I rocked out to Tupelo Honey at really 7:30 but at what the government insists is now 6:30, I thought, hey, why is just my phone going off and not the additional, tinny, you-ordered-this-on-Amazon-and-clearly-it-came-from-China alarm clock?

And right then I knew. I’d somehow fucked up. And that is when I saw my regular Chinese alarm clock said, oh hey, it’s 6:30 p.m., man. Have a cocktail. I’d set the time for p.m. when it was a.m.

Do you know what I haven’t done in forever? Is add any sort of Amazon link, so you’re reminded to click, say, that clock above so you are then on Amazon, and anything you buy I get millions of dollars for.

Anyway, so the time changed, and as you can see, it vexes me. Fortunately, I’m the only person in America who is vexed by the daylight savings. I’m saving daylight for a rainy day.

Photo on 11-4-17 at 8.55 PM.jpg
o fer fuk sake

Back when time was normal, I did nothing but my freelance work, and what I noticed by Saturday night is the animals were plumb sick of me and also I was depressed from sitting in my house doing freelance work.

So I got dressed and put on lipstick and went to Barnes and Noble at 9:00 on a Saturday night. I know! When I throw down, man… But hey, did you know Barnes and the Noble, there, are open till 11:00? I didn’t. Till I was depressed and wondering where the Sam Hill I could go that late that wasn’t a strip club.

I got some Moleskine notebooks. Oh, wait. What if there were a link to the same kind of notebooks, and you could buy them too and we could be Moleskine members only?

I also bought Judy Blume’s latest book.

Which, okay, is from two years ago, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.

So that wasn’t so bad, Saturday night wasn’t.

IMG_1558.jpgOn Sunday morning, I got stood up. If any of you know a local 54-year-old man of color named Charles–which I thought was going to be a good sign because that was my grandfather’s name–please tell him he’s a very rude man.

At 10:39, I wrote him via the dating app, as he was nine minutes late. “I’m, um, here!” One should take note of the fact that one did not get a real phone number before said date. One should never go on a date without the person’s actual number. This is my little tip for you.

At 10:45, I wrote him again. “I wait for no man, Charles.” Then I deleted him from my matches. Charles will not be in charge of my days and my nights.

IMG_E1556.JPGSo, since I was already up and sporting real pants and so on on a Sunday morning, I browsed the windows of my friend Kit’s store, and oh my god this chair.

IMG_E1557.JPGPlus also, oh my god, this hat.

I have to stop going to Kit’s store. She night as well not pay for the storefront; she could just drive all of her finds over to my house.

IMG_1546.jpgSo that about sums it up. It’s hard to blog about your life when you’re currently ceasing to have much of one.

Oh, but listen. Be sure to purchase many things via my Amazon, will you? Because my stupid dishwasher is broken and I have to get a new one, I think. I already had a dishwasher repairman here, twice, and it works better, as long as you don’t mind that half the things don’t get clean. I also keep trying to make this computer work nicely, and instead it groans and spools and sings about doom, despair and agony. This computer is six years old. Is that too old?

I leave you with photos of the animals, because remember when I went out and had fun and saw people other than animal people?

Me, either.

IMG_E1572.JPGIMG_E1571.JPG

IMG_E1564.JPG
get lyfe.

I swear Lily’s not dead. Lemme find any recent Lily photo… I have trouble because she’s always out having athletic adventures.

Oh. Wait.

IMG_1507.jpg
maybe lilleee a little bit ded

Okay, bye.

Joooon.

Ruins

I’m trying very hard to not talk about my 404 Error, because my hope is that I can just, oh, continue on with my life, and if I make him the topic of my posts, he’s still in my life, a bit. So I’m trying to write about other things even though I really just want to obsess.

So, hey, getting up to watch sunrises and meditative walks and time with friends and my dog blah blah. Oh, and also, I saw Ned on a dating site last night.

And here’s the argument, right? The, “Well, YOU’RE on a dating site.” Which is the same argument my mother would give me about people running into me at Kmart. “Well, THEY’RE shopping there.” Yes, but I have a stellar reputation to uphold.

What I never had in junior high school: A stellar reputation to uphold.

Anyway, sure I am. Of course I am. I’m on a dating site. At this point I’ve winnowed it to one because Jesus Christ, do they ever not work. And I have about .00004% faith in men being good, at this point. BUT I’M TRYING.

This damn breakup is more than two years old already, and I kept getting drawn back in, and starting to think, Oh, maybe this time it’ll be okay (oh, June), and then what do you know, another heartbreaking thing is discovered. I’m the Christopher Columbus of discovering things. “This is India!” No, it’s not. “This is an okay discovery! I can, you know, live with it!” No, you can’t.

I think I’ve found India, but what I really found was an Indian giver of love.

So, hey, June. Nice going. Good idea, to keep letting yourself get drawn back in. You sure selected the right Let’s Make a Deal door, there, sister. Again.

When I was a kid and watched Let’s Make a Deal, I always thought getting the donkey would be way better than a stupid car.

So anyway, there was Ned’s clever profile, a profile I’d have answered tout suite. And yes, I have a clever profile up, too.

So why was I stung?

I guess in my naive heart, I thought he would think, Wow, I really ruined June. I should sit here and think about why I did that, work on why I keep asking her to come back and then being mean to her. But instead, he’s all, Welp, destroyed her. Tourists can now come visit the June Ruins. Her insides are crumbled and missing and desolate. And even though I keep contacting her even still, asking to talk, I’m also gonna say, NEXT!

So. Perhaps that’s unfair, but that’s how I’m feeling.

IMG_1047.jpg
“Yes, are these the June Ruins? I was told there was a shave-ice truck near here.”

The Poet and I are going to a movie tomorrow. Here we are, yesterday, at a meeting in a very green room.

IMG_1045.jpgWork isn’t the sanctuary it used to be, either. Lately I’ve felt marginalized, ignored, and I’m trying to fix that but I’m not getting very far with it. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s disconcerting, because work was my one place that I was happy, at least from 9 to 5ish.

So I’ve been asking for more to do. Throw it all at me, I keep saying. I’m not sure how else to fix whatever I broke other than to make myself fairly indispensable.

I’d better go. I should shower, as that is the sign of someone who isn’t depressed, right? Like, hygiene and so on? Yes. I suppose showering didn’t cheer Janet Leigh all that much.

fbd3b3a1a8f2a92609488386a449838a

Stabbing it with her steely knife but unable to kill the best,

June

Because we need more oompah bands.

IMG_E0936.JPG
a powst about edzul?!

It’s raining today; at the most, it’s going to be 64 degrees. They also call that “the high.” Am become familiar with language of peeple.

Anyway, after Edsel’s a.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean he peed, he stampeded back inside, as he does. “Edsel, wait,” I said, and he screeched to a halt. That’s one good thing about Edsel. He usually listens to you. “Let me wipe your feets,” I said, and yes, I said “feets.”

Incidentally, who’s delighted she mentioned his scratching trouble yesterday? Hello, 200 pieces of advice.

It’s okay. We’ve been to the vet. Thrice. We’re working on it. Also, I can Google with the best of them. Oooo, also? I finally figured out you can SHUT DOWN MESSENGER on Facebook! You can just shut it off! No more fruitlessly saying, “Can everyone just not message me?” Because I shut if off!

Oh, the freedom. Who even knew that was a thing? I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom.

I’m free, to do what I want, any old time.

I’m free! Free falling!

If I could get off the Freedom Trail here, the point of my story is, I have a dog towel in this back room, a towel that is allegedly just for dog feets. I have no idea why, other than that meant they got to charge me more. They charged me an arm and a feets.

I also have a for-dogs absorbing mat right at the back door, then another “for dogs” smaller rug at the next threshold, accompanying this alleged dog towel. They’ve formed an oompah band. You’d think my house would be devoid of the muddy prints. The feets prints.

IMG_0973.jpg
stop saying. that not meen what you think it meen.

Oh, look. There’s, like, feets prints between the two rugs. Yeah. Hello, luck.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So I said, “Hang on, Edsel, let me wipe your muddy feets.” And I turned to get the towel, and when I came back, Edsel was holding up his foot. His one feets.

HOW CUTE IS THAT?

That story took 350 words. If a man told it–

a man would never tell it.

img_0927.jpgIn other news, this above about sums up m’weekend. Am vaguely depressed, and by “vaguely” I mean I’m depressed. Maybe I’m not depressed so much as I am just sad. And a little panicky.

I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don’t count for much.

See. Why does my brain have to have Air Supply lyrics in it? No one needs that. Not even the fine members of Air Supply. Ask me about algebra, though. My brain tossed that right out, like a brown avocado.

I realize there is a good chance, maybe an 80% chance, that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I mean, (a), I’m old. And (2), any man who’s single at my age is likely damaged. A thing I have learned the hard way. I’m not saying I’m not damaged. Look at me. But I’m saying I may be doomed.

This makes me sad, although truth be told, usually when I’m in a long-term relationship, I get annoyed with the person, anyway. So maybe I’ll be happier, once I accept this lot in life. But I feel like I’ve failed in some way. Like I’m a spare button that you keep just in case, but really you’re all, Why do I have this button? It goes to nothing.

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mom be edsel spare buddon
IMG_E0943.JPG
no, seeeruslee

So I spent most of the weekend here, other than yesterday’s venture downtown, driving all the old men–you know what? I’ll stop. I will spare you that much, at least.IMG_0967.JPGI mentioned this on Facebook last night, but yesterday when Edsel and I were taking our p.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean an actual walk, we saw a woman several blocks down, lounging on her hammock. She was reading a book, a cat strewn across her. “That looks lovely,” thought, and I noticed that cat was a handsome all-gray, my type, his tail whipping just the way Steely–

goddammit.

And that is how, once again, I’ve found my cat bonding with another family. Why? He doesn’t even like ME that much. Why suck up to other humans?

Anyway. I just hope this whole sad sad crush of doomed sadness won’t make me a boring blogger. People will start leaving in droves. I already learned the hard way–and why I gotta keep learning the hard way?–that everyone here isn’t reading me with love. I stupidly kind of thought you all were. Like, I kind of thought if you bothered to come here, you kind of liked me.

I mean, I thought that about a man who kept insisting he loved me, too, and look where that got me.

Why are people so goddamn complex?

Ima go get ready for work now, and carry on with my life, such as it is. I leave you with this YouTube veeeedeo, that Marvin hepped me to. He keeps putting up old veeedeos (keep saying that, June) from many years ago (this one is from 1998), and Dear Marvin: Does this piss off your wife? I mean, she seems very cool, but if it were me, I’d be all, “Okay, already, with the memory lane bullshit.”

I’m so glad Marvin married someone I like. Granted, it’d be a lot more fun for me to have a whole new enemy, but I’m glad he found a nice person who is sane. Marvin deserves that.

I’ll talk to you later. Tonight I gotta freelance and maybe lie around listlessly. I’m swamped.

Alone again. Naturally.

Coot

See June kvetch

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Glare-ing at you. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

I’m at the bookstore. I’m in the window. I’m speaking like I’m Dick and Jane. Oh, see. See June work. See June work on her fucking freelance.

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I’m sitting in the window of the bookstore again. Also in this window is sort of a hipster man, approximately my age, I think, but then again I see 36-year-old men and figure they’re “around” my age.

When 36-year-old men were born, I was 16. I’d already lost my virginity. I was a fully formed, ruined person.

Hi, mom.

Anyway, also sharing my window is a lesbian with a bleached mohawk, who came up here with her iced coffee and her laptop, and after awhile a bookstore employee came over and asked, “Who ordered the tuna?”

See June. See June pretend to be mature. See June watch the lesbian say, “I did. The tuna’s mine.” See June regress. See, see. Oh, see.

Not much happened this weekend. I got a sympathy card for Dick Whitman, finally, and a long envelope, because I printed out for him all the comments y’all made on Facebook when I told you his mom died. I made two copies of it–one for him and one for his sister. DW’s mom was a legend around these parts. These tuna parts.

I also bought flax seed oil for Edsel, as I continue to struggle with his red, raw, itchy skin that he now chews as his full-time job. He went on Indeed and filled out an application. Edz a full tyme chewur. Objectibbe: Challenge posish that offur chance to chew back.

I also put air in m’tires, and a very …let’s say rural man tried to help me, and clearly wanted a piece of June’s action. He clearly ordered the tuna, but there was none to be had. He was very kind, though, and as I drove away, I considered how delightful my “type” has been thus far. What’s a little NASCAR if a man is kind?

Yeah, no. I can’t. I can’t NASCAR. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Anyway, I made a deal with myself today that I would come out and do m’freelance till I got to page 20 of this book, and that might not seem very far in to you, but it is, trust me. I have, in fact, gotten to page 20, but now what the hell can I do with myself? I have to go to the grocery store, as I am clean out of garbage bags. So there’s that. Life: fulfilling.

I’ve been single, technically single, for two years. But this latest blow, this latest thing that happened in my nonrelationship, has made things different. If I was ever bored, I could call that Person Who Shall Not Be Named. Often he asked me to do stuff on Sundays: a movie, dinner, whatever. Now there’s a stony silence. On my end. He’s texted twice and written one letter these past two weeks. I’ve not responded.

So I find myself at loose ends. My ends are loose. I asked a few friends if they wanted to hang today, but no one could, promising “next weekend” we could do something. Marty Martin wanted me to come out with him last night, but he asked me at 9 p.m. and I was already clad in pajamas, having rented The Big Sick (highly recommend, by the way).

Today I got an emailed invitation to a party, and I noted I was the second loser to answer. I shoulda played it cooler than that. Anyway, that’s next weekend, and at least I can look forward to that throwdown. That shindig.

So anyway. That’s what’s going on with me right now. It’s a beautiful fall day, I got my work done, someone from Deliverance tried to pick me up, and the evening yawns before me with nary a plan other than the crucial garbage bags purchase and a walk with Eds, of the Chewy Edses. So I thought I’d write and say hi.

Hi.

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Oh! And Google Photos, an establishment that lives to torture me, showed me what I was doing two years ago today. I’d moved out of my house from my year abroad, was staying at Kaye’s, but had to return to my old house for the weekend to watch my own pets. Here’s a photo from that day.

Eds, who looks stoned. And my Lu. Oh, my heart.

My stupid heart. I suppose it will go on.

From a stupid window at a stupid bookstore during the twilight of my stupid life,

June

 

 

 

 

My 404 Not Found Error

IMG_E0891.JPGI stood in my backyard just now and watched several leaves fall from the branches of my tree and sway all the way to the ground. It was so pretty that I got the phone so I could show you, but of course once I got the damn phone, the leaves stayed tight.

weee not leaf-ing. heeeee!

Leaves are dicks. Nevertheless, I made a video, hoping to capture a leaf falling, like you’ve never seen that before, but instead my video is more let’s say meditative. Till Edsel. You’ll see.

I hate holding the phone vertically to take a video, but the first time when I went up then down to look at the dog, it got sideways.

I’ve been trying to be meditative lately. As you might know, I had jarring news last week, and you only know this because I wrote about it on the Facebooks, on a page called (Face)Book of June, and what was warm, what was really lovely of you, were the four people who joined the page, read my tale of sadness, then promptly quit it again.

So, no. No, I’m not adding anyone else to the page at this time. It was supposed to be for friends of this page. Friends. Of this page. So. I’m a tad wary right now.

But anyway, if you “Don’t have Facebook” (say, Madame 1800s, how are the 1800s going? Is there penicillin yet?) or whatever, suffice it to say that what happened was that I was on the mend, I was headed toward moving on from my last “relationship,” if you even want to call it that. I think I may just refer to that time as, “Those five years and 10 months that I was gravely mistaken,” but that takes too long.

Those years when I had Stockholm Syndrome?

My Not Found 404 Error?

Anyway. I thought I was moving on from it, whatever it was. It officially ended in 2015, but then it kept …hovering there, and I started it back up again last year at this time, then it ended again, badly, in December and I thought, Okay, this is really it.

But then it hovered again. And it’s hard to convince yourself a relationship is over when someone is constantly coming back, telling you he loves you.

Until you find out he doesn’t.

I found out some stuff, some you-were-not-loved information. And I wasn’t told because there was guilt or so much respect that anyone needed to come clean with me.

I found out because the other woman contacted me.

So.

I’ve been in a limbo for two years. A purgatory. And one thing I like about myself is my ability to not be dramatic about everything. But really, this half-broken-up shit is wearisome. So it’s kind of like I’m in a new breakup.

Again.

But since I’ve already spent much time grieving and mourning and feeling incredulous about everything, it’s moving along faster than you’d think, this time.

The point is, I’ve been trying to be meditative. When I walk Edsel at night, I’m paying attention to what I smell, what I see, what I hear. And it helps. Because otherwise I could be walking around with my brain spinning, as it has spun each day since I stupidly convinced myself I was in love, way back in March of 2012.

When your overwhelming feeling is more of anxiety that you adore this person and you worry they won’t adore you back? That’s really not so much love as a neurotic coupling. Must remember this.

You must remember this, a diss is still a diss. A lie is just a lie. The fundamental things apply, avoidant guy.

But I’m doing okay. I’m no longer in denial. Well. I’m 99% not in denial. I think I so dearly wanted some way that this would work out that I never quite accepted it was over.

Till now. I accept that it’s over. My plan is to never say one word to my 404 error ever again.

Oh! But while we’re on the topic of that (Face)Book of June page, I noticed yesterday a few people on there with the Facebook silhouette

Man_Silhouette.

And one person in particular with that image, and no friends, and the only info on her Facebook page was where she went to school. I say “she” but it’s a clearly fake, neutral name.

It worries me.

Look, I’m over there being me. My real name, my real details. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’d rather tell that stuff to real people.

Anyway, this particular person has been on my readers-of-my-blog page for six years, so I didn’t just delete her right away. I messaged her. Said the stuff I just said to you, about real and so on, and how it worried me that she/he had no identity. “Is there anything you can tell me to put my mind at ease?” I asked.

No response.

So I removed him or her, and also someone who had no info on her page except a picture of the Verizon chick from the commercials. Then I announced on the page at large that if you had a fake profile, or no profile pic, I was going to have to remove you, because it makes me uncomfortable.

Here’s what happened.

“I have a picture of a flower, June! Don’t kick me off.”

“See, no,” I’d explain, “I’m saying if you have NO photo at all, and NO friends, and NO posts on your wall that I can see. That’s when I’m removing folks. Because how is it fair that you set up a fake account so you can lurk my life? No. This page is an exchange,” is what I said.

Then three comments later, I’d get, “I hate how I look, June, so I have a photo of a soccer ball. Please don’t take me off this page.”

“Yeah, see…” I’d say, and explain it all again.

Ten comments later, guess what.

So that was my day yesterday, until finally last night I was face-down on my living room floor, just typing “please scroll up” every 14 minutes or so.

Cats. You’re all cats. I herd cats in my real life, I herd cats in my online life. But I do heart you all, those of you who are real with me, I mean. I know I haven’t met most of you, but dear god, are you part of my every day.

I’ve watched you lose tons of weight, or a husband, or your jobs. I’ve seen your family members get sick or well. I’ve seen you have rotten days and great ones. And even though it’s weird, and impersonal, our relationship, it’s also sort of very personal.

Thank you to those of you who’ve been real, and have seen me through this stupid 404 error, for screaming at your computer DON’T HAVE DINNER WITH HIM, JOOOOB! all these years, thank you. I’ve tried to be as real as I can, and I appreciate how real you are all being, as well.

I guess that’s all I have to say today. My freelance work came early, goddammit, so I ended up having zero free days after all.

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no fotoz, pleez. bitz.

Edsel just let himself and all the cats in, which was convenient for me. Last night, late, there was another NextDoor about a “sweet cat” and I didn’t even have to open it. Of course I did.

“This sweet cat followed us home. Is he yours?”

Ima just brand that asshole with my address and a DON’T FEED. Also, “sweet cat.” Could it be possible that he has multiple personalities? Or maybe he just turns on the charm when a potential new food source rears its head.

I can’t solve every mystery today. I gotta just keep moving on.

Moving the hell on.

Mendingly,

June.

Certain the neighbors enjoy me blasting Tom Petty at 7:53 a.m.

Under last night’s waxing gibbous, I found myself at the Full Moon Oyster Bar, in the company of a man. A gentleman caller. A swain.

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This is not he. “Wow, June, he looks just like a bar.”

It was not our first date. I kind of hope it will not be our last. Also, I did not eat any oysters. You know, I used to. Back in my devil-may-care Seattle days.

Do you know what I never actually have had? Is any devil-may-care days. I’ve had younger-and-just-as-neurotic days, sure. Probably the times I had oysters were far drunker times. My devil-may-Coors days.

Anyway, it’s early yet, but so far this guy is pretty good. We had our first date a month ago, a date that involved me meeting him for a drink and realizing on the way there that I was EFFING STARVED, and when I got there, he’d already ordered a cheese, meat and nut plate and it was JUST THE THING I wanted and we had a great time. I mean, not just because cheese and meat, and plus also nuts, although I’m not gonna lie to you, that was a pertinent highlight.

The next morning he wrote to say, “Listen, I know I’m not your type, but I really had a good time, and thank you.”

Here was me:

giphy.gif

See, I love a good gif, but then when I have to watch them over and over again, I get bugged, so let’s go to a new paragraph quickly so we can scroll past it.

Okay, see, we still need more room to scroll.

[scroll scroll scroll]

MAYBE GIFS AREN’T WORTH IT. In unrelated news, I would like to kiss that German shepherd doggie right on his manly head.

Okay. So, yesterday, I finally asked this guy why he’d sent me that weird “I know I’m not your type” text.

“Really?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably. Clearly he was hoping I’d just let that pass. Do you know what I never do? Hey, June, why can’t you keep a man?

“Okay, well, look. I’m not trying to suck your dick,” he began.

See. Right then I knew.

“But I never thought I…deserved anyone like you. You’re incredibly attractive, really smart–very smart–and you’re very, very funny.”

People think I’m smart because I have good diction and a quick wit. But ask me anything about physics.

“I am hilarious,” I agreed, stealing his bread from his plate of oysters. He’d already said I could have it. Shut up. Also, do not mention my  rapidly declining attractiveness and the consumption of bread at 8 p.m. WHEN I WAS ALREADY HAVING VODKA and hey, carbs. Hey, devil-may-carbs.

“But why would you think that?” I asked. This guy is great. He’s funny, he has a job, an actual job (are you out there dating at my age? Because this is actually a going concern. You’ve no idea how many 50-year-old men out there are not exactly gainfully employed, and still they trot themselves out there. Hey, ladies…), he’s been very kind so far, and I don’t know, man. I don’t know why he doesn’t see that. I mean, I see clear as a bell what a catch I am. [plague joke goes here]

Anyway, he probably doesn’t deserve anyone like me, as he seems like a good person who does not warrant having to be to be cast into World of June. So there it is.

Oh, shit. Steely Dan is fighting with a squirrel hang on.

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Unretouched photo of squirrel, sort of, having angrily and quite chirpily retired to his tree. SD stalked off, ears back. They shouldn’t discuss politics.

He–my date, not the squirrel–knows I have a blog but does not know the name of it, and anyway, I told him right off the bat not to read it because Faithful Reader Deb’s husband Peter told me years ago not to whip this monstrosity out too soon–rather someone should get all this delightful pleasure-of-life personality metered out slowly.

Hmph.

But anyway, I said, “I’m probably gonna mention tonight in my blog. Did you remember I have a blog?”

He remembered. Has he read it? “You know what? I have not. You told me not to, so I decided to take your advice.”

There is not a woman in America who would’ve done the same. EVERY WOMAN WOULD STAMPEDE FOR THE BLOG.

“Well, if I do talk about tonight, you’re probably gonna need a blog name,” I said, and careful readers will note I’ve gone 751 words discussing him and haven’t needed a blog name yet.

“Do I get to pick it?” he asked, sipping his manly brown liquor. “Okay, call me Ward. It’s a play on my middle name.”

Ward. Ward and June!

June_and_Ward_Cleaver_Leave_it_to_Beaver_1958.jpg

All 10 of you screeched, “IT’S A SIGN!” and this is why lesbians move in together on the third date. It’s not a sign, for heaven’s sake. But it was a charming coincidence.

Anyway, the point is, it’s nice to be dating someone with potential, and it was two years ago yesterday I left my Year Abroad house, so that was A SIGN. No. But I did note it.

I gotta go. I can’t talk about it, but I am still on jury duty, so. I’m tough but I’m fair.

Before I go, here’s what I think of when I think of Tom Petty.

Back in my devil-may-Coors Seattle days, my then-best-friend Esmerelda came to visit me, and we took a very manly hike up a nearby mountain (the one they show at the beginning of Twin Peaks). After, it was midafternoon and we drove past one of those tiny bars with the gravel parking lots, and we didn’t even need to say a word. We turned the car into the lot.

Our bartender was not what you’d call a handsome woman, because any woman who looks like Tom Petty is not winning any contests. We ordered a pitcher of beer because I had a designated driver date with me, a man much younger who we’d teased relentlessly all day (“If June had been dating you when I got married, I’d totally have asked you to be my ring bearer,” I remember Esmerelda saying).

The bar was my favorite kind: small, dark, with a juke box. We sat there on an absolutely beautiful sunny afternoon, listening to all the Tom Petty songs in that juke box, our feet up on each other’s chairs, drinking bad beer and laughing.

I sincerely thank Tom Petty for that afternoon.

Judiciously,

June

Goodbye, Beige Earl

Dear June:

Tell us about your weekend. We await, riveted. Signed, No one.

FRIDAY

IMG_0449.JPGWe had our work picnic Thursday afternoon, which I realize is not Friday, and I just gave this section a “Friday” subhead and WHAT THE HELL with this blog. The point is, I’m this weird combination of an extroverted introvert, where I sort of dread having to be around people, then I get there and it’s OHMYGOD PEOPLE YAY! and I sort of dash about frenetically visiting this person and that, and then it’s time to go home and I’m drained.

All this to say that Thursday was a lot of socializing, and then Friday I had A Thing. My work sponsors this foundation, and said foundation was having a dinner and a speaker at the country club, and I had to get dressed up and dine at the country club and so forth, and if there’s anything you’re sick of, it’s my “June’s Tales of the Country Club” stories.

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Me–did you know this was me?–after, in my go-to polkadot dress. Sadly, I own three polkadot dresses in varying sleeve lengths. Polkadots are big with me. Less big now that I’m down 10 pounds. Bah. I should stop talking in the caption now.

The man who spoke at our event had been Harvey Milk’s right-hand man, and he was there when Harvey Milk was killed. Then he watched all his friends die of AIDS. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be a gay man in San Francisco in the ’80s. I mean, it’s close, given all the action I get. Still.

SATURDAY

So that was kind of a sosh two days, and now that I’ve said “sosh” you will wash your hands of me and I understand. I do. I hope one day we can be friends. M’point is, I was all social activites-d out.

IMG_0482.JPGIt was bitty boopy blindy-boo Iris’s 6th birthday Saturday, and if you didn’t wash your hands of me before

Somebody at work put cans of cat food on the “anyone can take it” table, and they were fancy expensive cans of things like buffalo and pheasant. I thought I’d give one to Iris, seeing as most of the time she gets cans of “whatever dregs were in the meat murder room” flavor.

She didn’t even used to EAT cans. I read somewhere that canned food was good for kittens, and I guess that’s true because look how big Steely Dan got, and once she started sniffing cans, and who doesn’t like to do that, she got a hankering. So now I give adult cans to both of them, and I don’t mean that they are somehow dirty.

Lily doesn’t like a can. You’d think she wouldn’t be picky, but she is. She’s like one of those 250-pound women who run marathons and the world judges and it’s like, But you don’t know her.

Anyway, I gave a can of, like, wild boar and sweet potato to Iris, and she was all, “Ware delish dreg fud?” So.

My point is, after I took Iris to Chucky Cheese and she ate the mouse, I spent my Saturday shopping for fabric.

IMG_0511.jpgAs you may already know, because your hand is up in June’s life, I have this old chair that belonged to my grandmother, the one I’ve turned into. It used to be this burgundy Naugahyde, and then my mother owned it and gave it these baby-blue flowers, which Lottie, my dog, fmr, quickly turned into mud flowers, and I act like “mud flowers” is a thing.

The spring and summer I had Lottie was a rainy one, and my yard is aching for grass the way I am for a martini at 8 a.m., so she brought a lot of mud to the chair situation. And one might think one could tell her puppy to just NOT leap onto the chair, but clearly you have not attended June’s Iron Fist of Dog Discipline yet.

I’ve wanted to recover this poor chair for awhile, but it costs, and funds were tight, but then this year I pretty much took on a second job doing freelance work, and you guys are shopping on Amazon by clicking through my not-blog, and boom. All of a sudden, and it really did seem all of a sudden, I got caught up. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m out of credit card debt and I don’t have to live on four dollars till payday anymore.

IMG_0491.JPGSo, in a sense, when I recover this chair, it will be the recovery that you built. And I thank you. Most heartily, I do. My point is, I’d never gone to the fabric store before, and hey, overwhelming.

The good news is they’re moving, so every single piece of fabric was on sale, at least 50% off and some as much as 80% off. I tried to like any of the 80%, but it was all “Brady Bunch Plaid Orange” or “Smells Like Grandma” or “Gay Man in the ’80s” patterns, and I just could not.

The man who owns the store helped me, and was very kind, even though he was having a huge sale on a Saturday and was the only person working there. “If you have a dog, don’t get any silk fabrics,” he advised.

Naturally all I wanted after that were the silk fabrics. It’s like dating. I’m trying hard not to be drawn to another love avoidant, and I start chatting men up and after date number two, they’ll be all, “I really want to live alone for the rest of my life” or “I like to be in touch once every nine days” or “I was married once, for 8 months” and WHY DO I KEEP BEING DRAWN TO IT.

IMG_0487I liked this silk love avoidant flowered pattern in the middle, but who am I, Diana Ross? What do I need with a black flowered chair?

IMG_0488.JPGGreen one’s pretty, and oh, look, silk. This fabric just wants to hang out, nothing serious.

IMG_0493.JPGUltimately, I did get a green pattern, not silk, that wants to take things slow and maybe see other people. I love love love this pattern, and my whole goal while I was shopping was I’d pick a pattern that made me gasp because it was so pretty. This one did. It’ll probably keep texting its ex-girlfriend after we move in together.

IMG_0502.JPGThe rest of the day was pretty quiet, and I binged Leah Reminy’s series exposing the Scientologists. When I lived in LA, I lived near one of the big Scientology buildings, and they bought up pretty much all the apartment buildings on the blocks around their big building, and I’d see people walking to work, from their Scientology apartments to their jobs at the Scientology building, and now I wish I’d have dragged them into my Bug and saved them all.

SUNDAY

They didn’t make Sunday. Because of God. (When Harry Met Sally)

I had to work Sunday, because my work has changed recently and I’m not just on one team anymore; I copy edit for whoever needs it. It’s kind of exciting, but also, each account has different styles and needs and so on, so it’s more intense. I didn’t have to take my work home, but I wanted to so I’d do a good job.

I hope I did a good job. Next thing you’ll hear is me saying, Remember that thing I took home and fucked up?

IMG_9992.JPGMy hallway was always beige, part of the Beige World Fan Club that the previous owner founded and lovingly ran. It was a labor of beige love. A couple weeks ago, I noted that one wall had annoying beige WALLPAPER, not just paint, so I peeled it off and this happened.

My casual peel cost me eleven million dollars in Alf repair (Alf is my ridiculous handyman), and then yesterday I painted that bitch. Goodbye, Beige Earl.

Sometimes I make zero sense.

IMG_0517.JPGSo now it’s Sherwin Williams Quietude, the same color I’m painting my spare bedroom, you know, eventually. I still have to paint the trim in here, and that door that is not at all scuffed up from me throwing shoes down there at the end of the day because God forbid I walk all the way in there and put them in the closet I’m pressed for time, you see.

Also, I did not screw up and get paint on the ceiling. That’s where it’s peeling. Nother effing project.

IMG_0444.JPGI leave you with two things: My coworker Ryan’s dog, whom he brought to the company picnic. Look at his boopy half a face!

IMG_0439.JPGAnd this. When Ned and I broke up, I tried to unfriend all of his friends on Facebook, because I didn’t want any jarring reminders of him. I forgot about one of his friends, though, but that guy put up this old photo of Ned, and here’s the thing.

Usually I’m okay. You know. Ish. Usually I understand that it didn’t work with Ned, and that it’s sad but it’s okay. But then this photo just hit me, hit my stupid newsfeed, and it knocked me over.

I loved him so fiercely. I forget that sometimes. I’d like to forget it permanently. But oh god, did I love him. And it’s not at all sad that I downloaded this photo and kept it.

I guess that’s all my news that’s fit to not print. The chair guy comes next week to take my chair away and recover it, and I need you to know that when I left that store with my big roll of fabric, I said, “Well, I’m gonna bolt.”

No one likes me.

Well, I’m gonna bolt,

Joon