'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

Dear Lisa

August 11, 2012

Dear Lisa,

Today you woke to a cool, cool morn.  It was a sweatshirt morn.

After your Saturday morning things, you went to the Kroger's to get rawhides and dishwashing liquid and decided it was a stew kind of day.  The kind of day it might be nice to make stew on.  A cool, overcast day; a day that was pretty much wide open.  Nothing on the docket with a time attached to it, except some maybe social plans for evening/night.

Yeah, after you got home with the stuff, you gave the dog a bone and put the groceries away and sat a bit while she chewed on it and you had a sandwich, and then it was off to the big park for traipsing around with the long leash.  Got a phone call just as you pulled up; talked the first half hour of the wandering.

Back home, feet tired, more sitting in chair.  Dog slept.  Cat curled up for warmth.  Not like an August, and so welcome for it.  Watched "Louie"; watched half a "Simpsons" from some time ago; watched the first good hunk of To Have and Have Not.

Mattera fact, now, while the stew stews, you're thinking again of To Have and Have Not.  Feeling its call.  But soon it'll be time to go out, so you gotta stir that stew, then turn it off, and let it finish its stewing tomorrow.

Your feet are tired again, after standing to get all the stew stuff going.  Will it be a good stew?  It surely won't be a bad stew.

Stew is the one dish your mom made that you liked enough to want to ask her how to make.  Yeah, you got the cinnamon rolls recipe too.  I know.  But the stew was the only dinner, really.  The main one.  The one you actually asked about and were shown.

This letter you are writing yourself is fucking boring, Lisa.  I love you but that's just the truth of it.  You're wasting this format on a crappy post.  And you're not even going to friends-only it?  Sheesh.  What about custom just-you?  That's the way to go, if you ask me.

But it's good you're not asking me, cuz clearly the me of that last paragraph is the critical me/you, and fuck me.  Or that me.  Cuz really.

Only not fuck me as in fuck me.

It really is unfortunate, that usage.

I hope the stew isn't burning to the bottom of the pan.  Get your beautiful ass in the kitchen now, dear, and find out.  Then give that pooch a strollabout before you go out and socialize until late.

I really do love you.  You gotta admit, I act like it more than I used to.  Maybe that doesn't exactly make up for, like, things, but, shit, what else can I do at this point?

You're doing really well with the nutcase stuff just now, btw.  With the twinges of abandonment.  I wouldn't say that if it weren't true.  I barely can say it when it is.  Fill yourself out, my child.  And think how you understood that bit of the movie this afternoon as you never did, or would have, before.  The connection.  That thing.

Yeah, stew.  I know.  I'm the one who reminded you, a minute ago!  I'll shut up now.  :)

Have a good time tonight.  Then sleep tight.


-- Lisa

P.S.  Change your shirt.  There's glop on it.

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