This is not a story. Rather. it is an addendum to a story. A postscript if you will. Not a PostScript, because that’s something different and also because I deplore studlycaps except as a joke — when done seriously it’s pretentious and shows a certain contempt for literacy and language and usage. Everything except advertising and marketing and trademarks and making some fat rich guy fatter and richer. But I’m ranting.
It’s also a test of a post format I’ve never tried before. At least, I think it is — without having tried it before I have no idea if it will look halfway decent with what it is I’m planning on saying. If you’re reading this sentence it presumably means that it let me post this and I thought it didn’t suck too much. (What are the odds of both of those happening? Probably low.)
This is also the rechristening of a lost notebook. I’m old-fashioned in any number of ways but one of them is that I learned — if I can say that I ever learned — to write by making an outline of some sort on paper. Sheets of cellulose. Mashed-up dead trees. With a pen. So I carry a notebook around and make illegible marks in it whenever I think I have something to say (I’ll spare you the rant about the lost art of writing cursive.). Anyway, some months ago (probably Thanksgiving but maybe earlier) I left my notebook in my mother’s car. In another city. The deep psychological trauma resulting from this probably affected the ‘quality’ of my various scribblings and made me sound like a semi-literate boob. For months. You probably didn’t notice. Never mind.
I’m babbling again. Even though I don’t have yellow eyes.
I mentioned in ‘Breaking‘ that I broke Ms. EP and disrupted her life for weeks. It turns out that I broke her cell phone as well.
When last we saw her, she was climbing into a cab outside of a Mexican restaurant. Since then, she’s been poked, prodded, inspected, scanned, and evaluated and been told that I broke a bone in her foot. (“Yes, Ms. EP, that anoying foliage person broke you. You’re lucky he didn’t have access to his basement cache of Louisvilles. He has several, you know — each weighted differently to break specific body parts.” At least, that’s how I imagine the conversation going.)
So, over the holidays she was hobbling painfully down a street in Toronto, cane in one hand, cast thingy on one foot and a call came in. We’ll never know for sure, but I suspect that she had a particularly disturbing flashback to a certain ice-covered houseplant; as that flashback washed over her the ‘ice’ part made the phone (and probably everything else) slippery, the phone fell and
it was run over by a Toronto bus.
So I continue to ruin her life. Bastard.