The Continuing Existence of Things I Do Not Understand

All The Knives, Emily Prince

After both my mother and sister telegraphed their concern, I have decided to retract last week's blog post. I do not hate nor do I love any of you. The great influx of estrogen has finally leveled off and things are back to normal. That is, if you consider harboring fantasies of dropping everything and running to Belize normal. For whatever reason we hit a relatively rough patch and I am still hungover from all the uncontrollable sobbing.

But really, I am OK. The dog is alive and sleeping. The apartment mostly unscathed and the boyfriend still standing albeit now with a limp. The comforter is perhaps a little less downy due to all the languishing that had to happen but the pillows are finally dry. Words were said and while some of them held meaning, hindsight–and a few Motrin–now tell us that many of them, in fact, did not.

All this to say we are feeling back on trackish. There are gyms to which we must begrudgingly drag ourselves. Food stuffs to be purchased and then consumed before legal expiration dates. And a certain opus that could benefit from some attention. Namely ours.