Exit the man, enter the dragon

Figaro is gone back to Italy, and if you want to know how I'm feeling, read my autobiography in five to ten years. Because how shit I feel will take up at least a paragraph of it, as he was replaced almost by the minute with the Red Dragon. Anyhoo. Whine whine. We had a lovely vacation, the future is pregnant with possibilities, and I'm not pregnant at all. Wheeeeeeeeee!

I'm trying to keep myself busy - in the 4 hours since I left him at the aeroport I've updated my resumé, hassled the woman's shelter that was all lazy about getting back to Lady about volunteering, done laundry, read about psycholinguistics, taped up flyers for a thing . . . I suppose I should link it here if I'm willing to tape up flyers for it in the fucking shitty-ass rain . . . and that's all, really. I don't want to talk to people right now. People make Mistress La Spliffe cry. I just want to finish typing this, eat weed butter on chala toast, snivel, and read about psycholinguistics.

I suppose I should mention that I also got some comfort food from the Indian baker's. I got the poppyseed roll, which is not my favourite item from there in general but it is my favourite comfort food. It has an obscene amount of poppyseed. I mean obscene. Sometimes more poppyseed than pastry. And it really doesn't taste that great, but it makes me feel pretty good. I wonder if eating all those poppyseeds actually does something for people.