Go back, Jack, do it again
I know, I know, it's been forever.
I still owe you the story about how I met Jack's father, and what he said about me after I left, and what Jack replied, and I realize I haven't even finished the story about my condo, much less told you about how I went home to Toronto for a week and, at the very last second, found a tenant.
It's not that nothing's been happening. It's not that nothing story-worthy has been happening. Why, the story about how Genie told me that Clifford Jerel actually did end up stumbling onto my blog (though, thankfully, not my yellow vinyl-covered diary) is priceless. Worth volumes.
Tim Bray, who is in Silicon Valley today, and is taking me out for dinner tonight, asked the other day why I haven't been writing. I have no excuse, is what I told him, and I really don't. I just haven't felt like it.
I was beginning to think that, well, perhaps, just perhaps, there was a possibility, or at least there was the outside chance I might be approaching the periphery of the possibility of maybe not hating it here so much. That maybe, just maybe, one day, I might even be happy here. That I was even beginning to approach that possibility had a lot to do with Jack.
It's like I told you, Gentle Reader, last fall, on the occasion of my second blogiversary: I write when I'm upset, when I'm angry, when I'm scared. When things are going, well, kind of OK, I lack the urge. If my life isn't feeling like an existential angst-ridden episode of The Twilight Zone, I figure, there's nothing you're going to want to read about. I mean, where's the schadenfreude in Postmodern Sass being happy?
That's probably why I didn't tell you that Jack promised to take me to Hawaii for my birthday. I'd had the whole Internet convinced he was a bit of a bastard, you see; something of a rogue deep down, and that if he and I ever did end up, against all odds, riding off into the sunset together, well, you'd all keel over in a dead heap, snoring from the boredom of it all.
Which is why, too, when he called this afternoon to break my heart for the third time, not that I'm counting (here and here), it shouldn't have come as as great a shock to me as it did. Really, it shouldn't have. I feel like such an enormous great big fat fool, and I know what you think, Gentle Reader, which is why I've turned the comments off. Sorry. I just can't bear the I-told-you-so's right now.
Let's just say it's Sex and the City, season 2, episode 29.* I may even have the opportunity to throw up on the beach tonight. (Sorry, Tim.)
God, how I wish I hadn't told my dad about Hawaii.
I'm the biggest fool on the planet. Here's why.
*In this episode, Carrie-as-narrator says, "And then, everything I knew was promptly blown to pieces." It's two months after Mr. Big has broken her heart for the second time, when Carrie sees him at a beach party on Long Island, a 26-year old new girlfriend in tow. Carrie's response is to run out to the ocean and throw up.
I still owe you the story about how I met Jack's father, and what he said about me after I left, and what Jack replied, and I realize I haven't even finished the story about my condo, much less told you about how I went home to Toronto for a week and, at the very last second, found a tenant.
It's not that nothing's been happening. It's not that nothing story-worthy has been happening. Why, the story about how Genie told me that Clifford Jerel actually did end up stumbling onto my blog (though, thankfully, not my yellow vinyl-covered diary) is priceless. Worth volumes.
Tim Bray, who is in Silicon Valley today, and is taking me out for dinner tonight, asked the other day why I haven't been writing. I have no excuse, is what I told him, and I really don't. I just haven't felt like it.
I was beginning to think that, well, perhaps, just perhaps, there was a possibility, or at least there was the outside chance I might be approaching the periphery of the possibility of maybe not hating it here so much. That maybe, just maybe, one day, I might even be happy here. That I was even beginning to approach that possibility had a lot to do with Jack.
It's like I told you, Gentle Reader, last fall, on the occasion of my second blogiversary: I write when I'm upset, when I'm angry, when I'm scared. When things are going, well, kind of OK, I lack the urge. If my life isn't feeling like an existential angst-ridden episode of The Twilight Zone, I figure, there's nothing you're going to want to read about. I mean, where's the schadenfreude in Postmodern Sass being happy?
That's probably why I didn't tell you that Jack promised to take me to Hawaii for my birthday. I'd had the whole Internet convinced he was a bit of a bastard, you see; something of a rogue deep down, and that if he and I ever did end up, against all odds, riding off into the sunset together, well, you'd all keel over in a dead heap, snoring from the boredom of it all.
Which is why, too, when he called this afternoon to break my heart for the third time, not that I'm counting (here and here), it shouldn't have come as as great a shock to me as it did. Really, it shouldn't have. I feel like such an enormous great big fat fool, and I know what you think, Gentle Reader, which is why I've turned the comments off. Sorry. I just can't bear the I-told-you-so's right now.
Let's just say it's Sex and the City, season 2, episode 29.* I may even have the opportunity to throw up on the beach tonight. (Sorry, Tim.)
Photo by Tim Bray
God, how I wish I hadn't told my dad about Hawaii.
I'm the biggest fool on the planet. Here's why.
*In this episode, Carrie-as-narrator says, "And then, everything I knew was promptly blown to pieces." It's two months after Mr. Big has broken her heart for the second time, when Carrie sees him at a beach party on Long Island, a 26-year old new girlfriend in tow. Carrie's response is to run out to the ocean and throw up.
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