Another coworker was talking about a creepy guy around the corner who kept popping into her office and talking to her, and she couldn't figure out why. He wasn't flirting--in fact, he mentioned his wife all the time. Then she realized that he thought she needed the companionship. It reminded her of RM. Who, by the way, shot me an e-mail the other day to say 'hi.' I didn't *get* it, but I responded as tersely as possible.
I loved, loved, loved this week's fiction in the New Yorker. Last week's was good but weird, but this week's--Kevin Barry's short story--was amazing. And I have to quote from it, based on another conversation with a coworker, who is Ukranian, and actually shops at the lame Russian store a few blocks from my house (I guess it's less lame if you eat meat). Anyway, you know I'm very deliberate about my food choices, but I don't generally judge other people's food choices (the 'generally' is key; I did often think, speaking of RM, 'and that's your brain on high fructose corn syrup'). Anyway, I loved this:
I was not well liked out in Killary. I was considered “superior.” Of course, I was fucking superior. I ate at least five portions of fruit and veg daily. I had omega 3 from oily fish coming out my ears. I limited myself to twenty-one units of alcohol a week.
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