Dear Lovage,
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Actually I was debating. I really should be going home now, as it is very late in the evening, and I have loads of work to do before I come to work tomorrow, and I do have to get up early tomorrow, and I will have a lot more work to do this coming weekend.
Ugh.
What to say, what to say?
If you ask just how I am, I'll say very well, thank you. But how I have been is an impossible question to answer. I don't know, actually, how I have been.
Something's lingering at the back of my mind, but I can't get through to see what it is and why it's there.
Have just finished reading Bridget Jones's Diary. It was a quick and enjoyable read, just the right kind of book to carry around the city.
I was not just reading Bridget's mind. I was reading my perception and understanding of the English race, as well as my London living, I guess.
I don't crave to be there so much anymore. In fact, I don't crave anything too much these days. Sometimes I find myself missing various characters who had been the centre of my attention, the focus of my journal writing at different times. Other times, I find myself utterly revolted by rememberance of our physical contacts.
This evening, for example, I was missing WZ; yet I winced at the thought of his touch. Ugh. Ugh.
Ugh...
It's not him that I couldn't bear. It is myself.
I am sexually repressed, reserved and very polite. It's all so English, isn't it?
What am I?
Confused, but still love you,
Parsley
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