So, I have an online only friend I met years and years ago, back in my CompuServe days. I see her only on Facebook though. She the other day posts “are CBC guests given more money when they start a sentence with SO”?
SO, yes, he did show up, finally. After I’d left a somewhat snarly voicemail, he called, all out of breath, and showed up at my door with his long, and truthful though it may be, sorrowful and woeful story. He’s not going to be simple at all. His bus left in just over an hour. Irish of course wouldn’t leave him alone, so I got to also do some yelling, atleast at her, which was good.
He said he didn’t expect me to wait for him, and he knows that his life is crazy, and he hates his job, and has no life. Things are not wonderful in his life, one could say. Far far from wonderful. Em. So in comes Paula to the rescue? We’ll see.
Dear god, sorry Anita, but…SO, I got me some thinkin’ to do.
He did though Mom say I was magic… then mumbled something more. No. Not simple at all.
P.S. I ended up on his knee at one point, and we talked. I resting my head on his shoulder, sort of uncomfortable, but kinda not too…which felt good. Then the damn fire alarm went off, beep beep, and 1…2…3… in comes Irish and then there were three. Me AND Irish both on his knees. Its been doin’ that, think somethings off, cause there’s been no fire yet. Well, that of course put a kibosh on the snuggle time, and up again he was to pacing… then legs crossed, smokin’ (yes Mom, shhhhh), on the green velvet settee, and telling me more about his crappy life. I kept mostly silent though. Let him wonder. ;-)
P.S.S. And his new hair cut makes him look like a scruffy Bon Jovi. And with his blue and white scarf wrapped around his neck, with that black jacket on, topped off with a cap that says something, but I have never bothered to read. Em. Not simple at all.