Today I think I am feeling a little less insecure. I went to brunch at Josephine and Dave’s and helped their four year old daughter Lucy carve a pirate jack-o-lantern. Everyone was impressed with my pumpkin-carving skills. It turns out I am a multifaceted person. I realized while we were eating that nobody knew about my busted wrist. It has been covered in an Ace bandage for a few days now because of some mysterious flare-up that requires me to give it more support. Biking hurts, typing hurts, and I’ve lost a little grip strength. This is more than unfortunate. I don’t want to take it to a doctor again but if this keeps up what choice do I really have? (Your input is appreciated.)

Sometimes you forget that you used to do other stuff. Like ride horses, and then fall off them. Or have a budding career as a professional musician (until that fateful day). Or that you have more than one good reason to hate doctors (besides having to out yourself to an unsympathetic resident in the E.R.).

Today I was riding my bike home from Josephine and Dave’s and enjoying fall in Delaware Park and how I smelled like pumpkin guts and thinking about how peculiar it is that the things I have done so far in my life have led me here. That I am now friends with the people I am friends with. That we are colleagues or something. Or that I have a “career,” or whatever. That the old stuff drops off into some fuzzy past thing as new stuff is added to the sharper edges of the current part. I have a hard time thinking things happen for a reason but also I’m here to do a job, but that job isn’t necessarily all in my job description.

Josephine told me I made her nervous, too, and would like to talk about it more. She thinks maybe it has something to do with second-wave feminism and have I really got male privilege after all? But she says she doesn’t think it’s all that. I find it hard to believe it’d be all that.

Othello is trying to chew on the corner of The Importance of Being Iceland.