I forced M. to eat some waffles. It’s probably not nurturing to force treats, but damnit I care so don’t make me have to stab you.

I’m keeping this short, to make up for last night. On average maybe I’ll achieve a readable length. (By the way, anyone who cares, let me know if the entry below is far too long and self-indulgent. I think about writing longer and longer pieces, but I also think I may not be able to sustain interest. Lord knows no one needs me as a sleep aid.)

M. just said that he thinks someone popping up from my 20s right before I turn 40 (it’s a forenight away now) is a roadside for moving on past a milestone. I’ll have to think about that, but it is interesting.

Because I think myself funny, I will end this entry with something I always remembered for making me laugh. When I lived with Malcolm, he had a line at my expense that I still remember.

The scene, our apartment on Beech Street in North Cambridge, which is also home to the Long Funeral Home, which I heard is being condo-ized. Typical rent-controlled turn of the century flat with thin walls and bad heat. What you need to know is I am in the throes of passion a tad vocal.

I wake up groggy after a night of entertaining a gentleman caller to find Malcolm with a morning cup of coffee (or probably strong tea, come to think of it) and the newpaper.

“Jesus Christ, Denise, I couldn’t hear the hockey scores.”

Rimshot.