it's been 61 days sixty-one days. soixante et un jours. i'm in france. my dog is sitting on the back of my couch (canape BZ, that is, "bay zed" not "bay zay" which would roughly translate to "fuck couch" or "couch to fuck" as i learned a week ago) grumbling and growling at the sounds of other humans living in this apartment building. i have decorated a bit -- a purple patterned blanket on the couch bed, a candle i light every few days or so. it wouldn't say it feels like home, but it feels like mine. -- f: i don't think i'll ever hear from you again. i mean, i literally have a different phone number, in a different country. do i care? i'm not sure. i am a little drunk, but i know at least that i wanted to mean something. anything, almost. and i really, truly don't think i did. but i can never be in your brain. so it's not worth the trouble of worrying about. -- actually, most of the men i've fretted over are not worth the trouble of worrying about. is that a bit much? maybe it is. but i am so much happier when i am focusing on myself, when i am doing things for myself. and that's worth remembering. -- i'm going to try to write more. why not, right?
10.29.19