Omphaloskepsis.

I dated this boy in college, and just before he got married I told him we'd probably never see each other again. He laughed and laughed, said there was no way that would be possible, but of course I was right. A few weeks back I was doing some reconnaissance for a conference in New Orleans, threw him a bone and suggested we meet up for dinner at Jacques Imo's for old time's sake. He politely declined, off on vacation with the wife and kids.

This was a lie, of course, as I found out when I called the house and he answered. I'm at Le Bon Temps. Wanted to leave a little Kermit Ruffins on your answering machine. Guess I'll order myself another drink now. Bye bye. I used to think that we were meant to be because we used the same brand of toothpaste, the same brand of floss, and now that I know without doubt how wrong I was I don't know where to put that information. It doesn't mean anything, but it meant so much for so long that, I don't know. I'm lost.

I crack jokes at the most inappropriate of times, just when the needle is about to pierce vein, when the scalpel starts to make its incision. I think this is why I'm bruised more often than not, why nurses always feel so damn sorry for me. I've been wondering lately why I started blogging again, and I think it's perhaps I thought that writing for an audience, no matter how small, would improve my writing. But it hasn't. I never wanted to be a writer anyway, and why I carry on I do not know.

The distraction, perhaps.