Easy relationships encourage complacent inaction; heartbreak spurs complaisant effort.
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The ex-boy sent me a story juxtaposing the first time he was bombed (in the literal, cause-for-Memorial-Day way, not the "I got so fucking bombed at the Memorial Day barbecue!" slang) with condomless sex. I'm fighting the urge to edit it into something publishable and submit it somewhere for him.
It's something I've been asking him for for months, to read something he's written. I showed him mine, but he never would show me his.
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Meanwhile, I am raiding my freezer for leftovers from my baking and cooking frenzies of rainy days past, taking in carbs in every form: whole wheat apricot scones and leek bread pudding, sweet potatoes and fava bean and artichoke heart pasta (artichoke hearts being the most appropriate breakup food, if only by name).
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Michelle's divorce was finalized on Thursday, about goddamn time. Freedom has never been more appealing.
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Meanwhile, I'm breaking new boundaries in yoga and getting back into a truly abusive relationship: my first long run in months in spite of wind-induced wheeze and still-wonky-from-the-ski-accident knee.
It seemed like a good idea, until I got halfway up Flora Vista and reminded myself why I stopped running in the first place, and then it was a good idea, when I got to the top: sweet, sweet torture, all for a peak at the ocean in the middle of an 18 hour work day.