strange how hard it rains now

It's one in the morning and Peter Pan is not at home.

In any other situation in which two parties share an apartment, this would be cause for worry. This would be cause for worry if I didn't know exactly where he was (whether nor not he bothered to let me know.)

I am trying to concentrate on the lovely tapping of the rain on the roof, the sounds of my new neighborhood on a wet and quiet Saturday evening, as I type this thing I should not be typing, as I listen to the Ns and Ws whiz in and out of the terminus. This moment is none of anyone's business but mine because I chose it. So I lie here thinking of baseball games and burgers and beers—and debates about the Quilted Northern bears and the relative merits of Nietzsche's analysis of the Dionysian and the Apollonian ideals. That's where my brain wants to be. Not imagining my erstwhile boyfriend sprawled on his parents' loveseat in various stages of undress, too drunk and selfish to put his shoes on and come home.

Then I think... but of course, you stupid cow, this is not his home. And if he were to show up tonight to this address we supposedly share, he would only be furious that they turned off the water until morning to fix a plumbing issue. (My net regrets remain at zero, in case you are keeping score. I love this place.)

So... rain. And quiet. And Iain Pears. I can do this. Doubt me at your own peril.