...there is not the slightest excuse for plum or puce...

In a pile of things I'd retrieved from his apartment, and through which I only began sorting today, I found a pair of his boxer-briefs neon yellow fringed with green, and a note attached with a paperclip: "You always looked cuter in these than I did". Because of which I blew up at him today - apparently he did not know how out of line that was, did not consider that maybe I wouldn't be jumping at the chance to wear his underwear around the house, however cute I was (and I was very cute) in them once upon a time, since hereafter everything associated with him has become once upon a time. Boys are stupid.

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I answered a month's worth of phone messages on Saturday (read: 7) and one of them was from a former colleage of mine at the NGO I used to work at. As I pressed save, vowing to return her call on Monday, I briefly wondered what that was about. I called her back as planned today, and found out - a writing opportunity as a Junior Journalist with the Toronto Star for 6 months, starting February. Hurray! Two days to decide whether to take it on or not. I would love to but am secretly afraid of writer's block and deadlines and poor spelling and sounding silly.

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After making a salad tonight which featured lots of minced onion, the female component of the household all let loud with advice on how to get the smell off my hands. My mother's advice was to douse my hands with lime juice. My grandmother's: flour. My aunt suggested washing with soap, as per usual, but while doing so rub my hands vigorously against the stainless steel basin. My cousin thought the trick was cold water, instead of hotter. Confused, yet intrigued, I combined all the suggestions. Except the flour. That's just silly.

P.S. We won't be staying friends, I realized as soon as I heard him say "I don't know. I feel like suddenly when I wasn't looking, this became serious". What. The Fuck. It has been almost a YEAR. You didn't think this was serious?