SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES

Not even when I'm giddy on caffeine will I describe myself as a romantic type. Roses leave me cold (stereotype flower), chocolates are good without any emothional connotations, and soft violin music merely irritates me. This, probably, explains why since my break-up over a decade ago I haven't connected with any members of the opposite gender. They're nice, and can be enjoyable to interact with, but I have neither been smitten, nor smote.

My best relationships, other than with the handsized she-sheep who assists Ms. Bruin in the administration of this househould (with a firm hoof when necessary, as the other creatures can be rambunctious), tend to be with intelligent sensible women who have interesting pools of knowledge and specialization. People who read. Who have pursued skills. A talmudisticly inclined academic, an illustrator who also makes mediaeval costumes, and a woman with an obsession for costume jewelry, about which she knows more than mortals are supposed to know. The deep knowledge. From the beginning of the universe when the brooch was first forged. You know, that brooch. The costume jewelry piece of immortality.

That last mentioned happens to be my apartment mate.
She also knows a lot about Joan Crawford.

The point is that beautiful sunsets like we've been having because there is smoke and particulate matter in the air from the Oregon wildires recently leave me cold. "Oh how beautiful", people will say, swooning, whereupon I head back inside for more of my hot beverage, or to pick up a pipe and stuff it for a quiet smoke away from couples getting all weepy and soft from the beauty of it all. So romantic! Those colours, that glow!

Then they'll have an intimate dinner in a charming little bistro with a vase of flowers on the table and a white tablecloth, after which he gets down on bended knee and offers her a ring. She blushes shyly, and bursts into tears. Melting! Melting! Other diners witnessing this get all glowy, it's so sweet, warm feelings! Meanwhile, some of us are sick to our stomachs. It's nauseating. You spoiled our meal, and now we can't get the waiters attention.
Sick romantic yuppie scum!


A recent dinner: 5 mg of Amlodipine Besylate. Coffee. 鹹蝦醬三絲炒米 (matchstick cut fatty meats, vegs, stinky shrimp sauce, and chilipaste, stirfried with rice thread noodle).
The apartment now has a faint whiff of South East Asian slum.
No rings. No roses. No sunset.


I would have shared it, but there was no romantically inclined college graduate present, keen to discuss a recent paper, or exciting discoveries in the field of igneous rocks.

We could have agreed that everything now smells of trees, plastic, wild grasses, and old tires in Southern Oregon. An old-timey fragrance. Twixt resin and petrochemicals.



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