Fuck, Margaret Atwood. Why aren't we lovers?

This is what I miss, Cordelia: not something that's gone, but something that will never happen. Two old women giggling over their tea.

This woman has printed my entire existence in literature, and I don't know her at all. My life as the plot of Cat's Eye would be far more disconcerting if I wasn't so fascinated by how the hell she did that.
There is, however, always the possibility that I am one giant cliche, full of flat adjectives and stale anecdotes. There is the possibility that we all are.

I haven't been to the ocean in weeks. It's killing me. There is no time. Also, I am dying to see Bruce Cockburn at the McPherson Playhouse tonight, but I've resigned myself to an evening of poem revision over dinner and the Amelie soundtrack, and laundry, if I can work up enough concern for personal hygene. I still have clean underwear, so the chances of that happening are quickly waning.

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