I'm working on a long letter to Jim. I don't know why I want to tell him about my Moral Quandries About Teaching English, or my Nothing Excites Me Like Syntax, or the like, but I do. I don't think he'll respond, really, but I want him to know. It's a little weird.
edited because this doesn't deserve a separate entry, but I have alienated or lost or drifted from a number of very dear-to-me friends through a weird combination of long droughts of neglect followed by mean floods of clinginess. And then sometimes I run into them on the internet, or rather, I see their name on something, mentioned offhand, and I get really sad. Which is why when I drink half a bottle of wine (a lot for me, thanks) I tend to tell those ones I haven't run off yet how much I love them, which is (possibly ironically) a form of that intense clinginess that ran some of the old ones off in the first place. But also the neglect, yes. Months or years of it. Because I'm awful.
Yes I'm still drinking, fuck off.