july 10, 2001. This afternoon I went to fetch my mail at the bottom of the hill. (I call it downtown, but my mom always snickers at that name. I suppose that a town of 3000 doesn't really have a downtown. But I digress...) It has threatened rain all day today without actually committing to, y'know, rain, so I carried my plaid umbrella as a precaution. And because the humidity was so high, everything had a curious crispness to it, like it was brighter than it was supposed to be. I found it exhilarating, but that feeling may have appeared because I was on French leave from work. You never know with exhilaration. So anyway, I picked up my mail (and threw away the Zellers flyers -- I will never shop there again, that was was my solemn vow when they brutally canned my ass last year). My yearly academic package was waiting for me, which is good. I can finally call my dad and schedule a flight home at the end of August. I need this trip home so very badly. I need to feel cracked city cement under my boots and feel the special sweaty glow of 2:30 a.m. on Queen Street West. I need to be back among people who don't give a damn whether I live or die...and sleep in the homes of people who love me. Oh. This is a very small story, but it keeps wandering off the road. Bear with me. So. I have my mail. On the way back, I decided to make a small detour into the brand new tattoo parlour that just opened on Main street...because I wanted to price a potential anniversary tattoo and well, it's the kind of place I'm interested in. I walked up the stairs to find two people dressed in black, their necks hung with different spiked dog collars and each wearing a fair amount of black eye makeup. I looked down at my pink Powerpuff Girls t-shirt. "I'll have to ask my husband," I muttered, and skedaddled. Oh well, I thought as I made my way down the stairs. I have Poppy Brite's home phone number. They can't take that away from me. this time 4 years ago: my other ophelia says some really nice things about the poetry that is no longer online