Separate the ugly cares, you've married the muddy and clear.

Strange thing knowing someone doesn't like you. You feel a little befuddled, hurt. "How could someone not like me? What's not to like?" you ask yourself. I've been fortunate: I can only list a small amount of people that have disliked or dislike me(I'm referring to the ones I'm sure about; I'm certain there are plenty more who keep their feelings about me secret). In most examples, the feelings have been mutual and work related and based on clear-cut, fundamental differences. What I'm talking about, though, is when someone dislikes you even when, at least on paper, you would seem to make good allies. Sometimes it's as simple as looking like someone who beat them up in high school. And that is why, unless you're intent on forming a friendship, it's advisable to not dwell on the matter any longer than necessary. With that in mind...

I was going to workshop some psychological stuff I've been going through, but I've thought better of it. To do so would take multiple posts because, to fully explore the issues at hand, I'd be required to explore the underlying psychology, not only as it pertains to me, but of other people. I'm not up for doing that for a variety of reasons, not least of which has to do with not wanting that list of people who dislike me to grow substantially longer.

Picked up A Prayer For Owen Meany and a book of poems from the Romantic period at the Goodwill in Davis. Only two bucks. Take that, Kindle!

Therese was back at work today. Jeff had called her over the weekend, she said,and told her he'd like her to come back today, rather than later in the week, like originally planned. She recounted the Home Depot letter story that started this whole mess, but this time she told me she lied to Jeff when he saw she was writing an e mail to Home Depot. She told him she wasn't--she had minimized the window as soon as she was aware of his presence and hoped he wouldn't pursue the matter. But of course he did. He told her to maximize the window so he could see for himself what she was working on. She never had a chance.

As she was telling me this, I had images of a child, with crumbs on his face, denying he snuck a cookie from the cookie jar. She told me she was going to look for another job; Jeff was too severe, too strict. If you say so, Therese.

In line at the grocery store tonight, someone bumped the front of their carriage into my leg. It was Mara. She had an hour left with her Zip Car and wanted to get a bunch of groceries before she returned it. We sat on the bench by the exit and talked for a bit. She's been busy lately; our time together has been clipped, staggered. We've settled into a different phase of our relationship--a little closer, a little farther apart-- that's a touch bittersweet.

She cut short our conversation because of time constraints and went shopping. I walked out to my car and it wouldn't turn over. It's happened before -- this time, though, it took longer to turn over. That's been the way of things, I'm afraid.