Mango's mad at me. Maybe not mad. He's rarely mad at me. But he is annoyed, peeved, ticked. It may be because it is a hundred degrees in our sweltering little apartment (ridiculous considering that is has cooled down to a comfortable 70 outside), or it could be that I spent the last half an hour mulling over a series of quickly discarded pen names for a spanking new blog. He finds that I'm not paying enough attention to him, not ignoring the heat to move close to his shoulder or popping in the DVD of Moulin Rouge that I'd promised/threatened we'd watch.
Mango has retreated to the other, less comfortable couch, and satisfies himself by occasionally tossing baleful looks by way. Poor Mango. How do I explain to him that, contrary to what it must seem like to him, I'm not wasting our second to last Thursday night together? If I tell him I'm starting a blog, he'll ask me what I plan to write about, and how would I reply?
The not-quite-existent love life of a 21 year old, the excitement of my 8 to 5 days in an office job, the squabbles of an ordinary family, the everyday intricacies of boy friends and girlfriends?
Mango is sighing and murmuring about being unloved.
I'll be back.
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hehe, Mango. :)
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