It’s an awful thing when pets are sick. They can’t really tell you where it hurts or if tummy trouble is temporary from chewing loads of tissuey paper products or something more serious. After a couple of hours running after and tending to a vomiting cat, scrubbing out drops of warm poo from light-colored carpet, hoping the worst is over.
Do I commit to the day, make coffee and sign on the corporate network, show my boss a braggadocios level of commitment, or curl back up in now cool sheets and duvet?
Might as well blog.
Sad to watch the blog community shrink and dissolve. I check in often, sometimes find new words but mostly see hands on the Facebook side. I don’t chide the F-Book, it’s existence has returned lovely friends, allows me to silently stalk and feel more connected to a very quiet world at 4:32 in the a.m. where old habits die hard and the desire to reach out and touch inappropriately is at its strongest. I miss the writers, the good writers, the ones whose stories and daily tales made me chuckle or made me think, made me sprout small crushes or hopeful valid electronic friendships. Can’t have enough of the human touch, warm from a laptop or otherwise.
Real life is a glorious distraction of late, both a blessing and bigger blessing. I’ve been bitten and smitten, giggling with old girlfriends for hours on the phone, sharing secrets. A month or so with a new friend who opens the car door, made me breakfast in the morning, let’s me touch him constantly. Strolling hand-in-hand, sitting side-by-side in a restaurant both. Feeling special. I like feeling special. He came over Saturday and fixed my washing machine. It’s all a contact sport, to feel connected to something real and organic. The girlfriends and the manfriends and the flings and the undefined.
Got a text from the fling just this Sunday morning, that kind of text. I stared at the four letters followed by a question mark for a hard 30 seconds or so before laying the phone down, leaving it and walking out into the sun for the day and the as-yet-undefined-one-month-new-friends house for the night.
Curl up or coffee? Jump into another writers day or nestle deep, wrapped up in the comforter, letting the good thoughts replay?