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Fairweather moping. Fall. It's really quite nice, this moping, if I could do it properly, if I had enough free weekends to sit by myself with tea and a book, to clean my house and take care of my plants, to sleep in late and go to bed early, to wear flannel pajamas and big warm socks. To withdraw and talk to no one and turn off my phone and go for the occasional walk in the evening or - until the bears go to sleep for the winter - better yet a bike ride along the river by myself. To write sad stories and organize my notebooks. To read old chats and emails with tears streaming down my cheeks. To run for miles until I get too hungry to go anymore. Two ways to get over it: meet someone new and distract myself with him, or get some kind of closure with this. I don't know what it'll be. I haven't decided anything. But instead of having the lovely tragic kind of weekend I might have wanted, the stories I wrote this weekend (in between bouts of sadness and bad mood) were Myrtle B. Jones - she finds out her last name really isn't Jones! She and Taffy somehow end up in Europe! There is a dog chase, there is a monk in the moonlight, Myrtle's mother dies, it's all very dramatic. I haven't quite figured out if there is one central Myrtle B. Jones storyline that I'm writing in bits and pieces. Because there are recurring things, even though I meant for all of them to be disjointed and disconnected. Ha! Ha! There's the one written by Taffy, it is hilarious. HILARIOUS, I think. Hilarious for two reasons (or more): because Taffy wrote it, because she was on drugs when she wrote it, because I have no idea what kind of drugs she's supposed to have been on and even if I did know I wouldn't be able to describe it realistically because I know nothing about that, because Taffy steals Myrtle's idea and then writes it herself, while on drugs, and it's stupid and hilarious. See, how can I get over it when I'm too ADD to mope right.
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