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"fuck it" by the lovely eggs was playing on her headphones that she was recently wearing after a sobering year of death-stalking depression. After that, "wolf like me" splayed. she was very precise in her music. no new influx for decades.
Round and round the victory lap. the was the nickname for the new road she lived on in the charity house.
she had just been dumped, but she had loved the ride because she didn't incessantly write messages in empty bottles and poke the dead corpse of the bloated blessed past. She had been focused on a carnival - who could possibly not charm someone for 36 hours. It was like the easiest of assignments. Her goal was of course someone to encounter her mind and adore it and want more. she wasn't sure what the prior mistake - Andrew - had been precisely. in order to grow from it, she sure wanted to learn from it. her guess was she went against every instinct and ignored every cry in order to follow the 'good on paper" and "he loves me enough for the both of us." bullshit.
The victory lap was almost as small as a school track. maybe it was the size of a hippodrome. she had droned on to new guy about hippodromes and demes. that had been the last night he had really texted her come to think of it. oh well, she'd love it if someone would talk about Celtic mating rites or something. She loved talking and learning new things. she had found him more and more pleasing.
and then crash.
the seance of a ghost.
she put her yellow vest on and continued out the door. she must go on walks four or five times a day. it was one of the few things that calmed her, and there were many many trees in this neighborhood and she was always the only one walking.
The day before, she had been practicing matching long strides. today, she remembered that her stride could be matched too.
It was maddening to be ghosted. it felt like being cheated on - a rite of passage - now she had her first ghost. she had felt such feelings that she had written them privately for weeks. now, she was - as THEY say - back in the ring.
Apparently, there were many people that sold the same brand of smart witty banter. she liked to think that he had found someone younger and more amazing. what had it been? she had read hundreds of pages on ghosts. it was hard to determine a reason because it could be anything but almost 100 P claims "lost interest". She was trying to read Balzac's "Lost Illusions".
and having a mate is like ...
it was fun to practice again. it was fun for her to pretend to feel.
she finished the lap and went into her non-cool mid-century charity home and celebrated president's day. she ate toast with jam.
Later, she went for another walk. She switched it up and went in the opposite direction. The trees were still shouting. She sometimes wondered if she would feel that claustrophobic feeling again. What a chersche specimen though. god, the ghost of red hair had been an intriguing objectification.
The little birds - they were so tiny - danced in the driveway as she tried always to find a way to get the wire connected. gvbgg
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