Byronic.

Never one to do things the regular way, my mother called me Sunday morning. "So let me get this straight," said my boyfriend, eyes rolling as though he weren't well used to the quirks of tiny women. And quirky though I am, our Sundays now that I am home have fallen into a bit of a routine, one of wends and probable dead ends and afternoon beers. It's sort of lovely and sort of the exact opposite, the plus and minus canceling each other out so that I guess I'm pretty neutral. I'm Switzerland.

My job is exceedingly stressful but somewhat rewarding; I hear some recent work of mine has been mentioned to the VP of these states united (I also heard a lovely story about his desk that will have to wait for another day). In vain I tried to convince my boyfriend that I need a treehouse from whence to launch my arrows of truth and justice; "I'll cover the exposed ductwork with branches," I said from atop the ladder. "I'll use it everyday." But he did that thing he does when he's ignoring me, or worse, dismissing me, so down I climbed to heart-of-pine floors, original (as was the mantlepiece).

I'm not entirely sure what happened with whomever you are--or were--last week, but I've got a sneaking suspicion. I thought about feeling sorry for you or myself or the kind citizens of Nashville but I couldn't muster the energy. In old age I find I'm more likely to pick up a cough, to read rather than write, to hang with my kid or have a drink with my friends than with futility attempt to remember memories long forgotten. I said something stupid about moving away from home yesterday and made everything worse, but I've never thought about love when I thought about home.

It's just not in my nature.