Thursday, November 15, 2012


Seen on the Red Line to 95th at about 8:15 a.m. 

I see you through the window, sitting there, softly, your head bowed. You must have seen me, too. Don’t think you can hide from me just because you’re on another train.

You look like you’re sorry. Do you want me to think you’re sorry now? You didn’t seem so sorry when you left with him. You said it had just been a phase, that you were mistaken. Despite all our nights in bed together, you were mistaken about that. You realized that you needed a man. A man you could marry, a man you could have babies with (be normal with). He smirked at me with triumph in his eyes; he threw his arm around your waist like he owned you. I couldn’t believe it. You preferred him, that pig, to me. You were ashamed of me, of us. Ashamed that I was a woman, ashamed that you were, too.

Well I hope you’re sorry. I hope he dumped your ass. I hope you want my forgiveness, because you won’t get it. And you won’t get your bookshelves back, or your rug, or your striped pajama pants. I’ve grown accustomed to them. They feel like you. 

Oh my, Anna Karenina was gorgeous. If you are interested in dance, theater, or visual art, I would highly recommend it. It's very sad (obviously). And it's not a perfect adaptation, but what adaptation ever is?

I went to Loyola's campus yesterday afternoon to pick up some transcripts to send to grad schools. It made me quite nostalgic. It also made me feel like an old lady. I know that 24 isn't particularly old, but it feels that way, sometimes.

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