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A man or a mouse 0

Dear Bradshaw,

Jimi is here at my side and I know what she wants. She wants affection, attention, to be jostled and joked with. Usually I chase her from room to room, try to corner her in one area or another, and then, if I can catch her, I throw her over my shoulder and carry her around like a sack of potatoes. But I think now I’ll get the brush and brush her. She loves that. And now that spring is here, I can brush her in the sunlight pouring into our living room. I also need to cut her nails but have to wait until she’s falling-asleep tired or even actually sleeping in order to do that without a fuss.

On another note, at work today I was thinking about something I wanted to write you but now can’t remember what it was. I think it had something to do with diaphanous fish or Wonder Woman’s invisible jet or… ah yes! Transparency! Regarding my quest for peace and harmony via wine (or shall I call it “spiritual therapy”). I figure you must think I ought to be drinking right now, right? If I plan to pursue my holy quest? Well, you’re right, couldn’t be more on the mark but, well, that’s part of the plan, you see. Controlling it instead of it controlling me. Of course, I admit that writing about wine tempts me to get up, walk into the kitchen, uncork a bottle, pour a glass, and then drink it, but nope! Not gonna. Not right this second anyway. Who knows how I’ll feel in a few seconds, like now, for example? Now I’m thinking about it again, truly considering the idea, toying with it, sort of kicking it back and forth in my mind. But that’s it. That’s the extent of it = considering, toying, kicking. It’s not going any further than that, and that’s that… for now.

At the moment, Jimi is staring out the window (which is really a door) wondering what’s going on out there. Either that or, as I’ve said before, pondering the Laws of Thermodynamics or, perhaps, counting the leaves on the trees, who knows? Maybe she’s imagining things in the shapes of clouds, or trying to figure out what floor we’re on.

Anyway, it’s time for spiritual therapy. Time to take it more seriously, I mean, to be it instead of to ponder it. What am I a man or a mouse? How am I ever going to disappear if I don’t hoist my britches and tighten my belt a notch or two? I’m no spring chicken, after all. I’m nearing forty and have a long way to go if I plan to leave unseen. No turning back now though, right? And that means I’ve got to get up now, go into the kitchen and, well, you know the rest.

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