Two nights ago when I was reading in bed by the gentle light of my upright IKEA crepe lamp, I saw another earwig slip out from by the wainscotting and skitter across the attractive hardwood floors of my Danish Haven. I ended up reaching over and crushing it with a slip of paper I had been using as a bookmark.
Last night at the bar the gangly-pud boyfriend of my nemesis came into the bar near campus where all the students go, and where I was drinking and chit-chatting with a friend. The doorman and the bartender gave him enthusiastic hellos and shook his hand, which threw me off guard. Since his girlfriend is such a little ray of sunshine, I assumed both of them were equally well-loved, but I guess I was wrong. Whatever's up with that, though, one thing is clear -- he's only in the relationship for the ass. That was clear long ago. Whenever they're together he seems stressed out and overwrought like she's unloading her stress onto him, and he has to have some good reason to want to put up with that.
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