Something's been bothering me since this weekend and I now realize what it is.

Let's start with Valentine's Day, 2005. I gave my (now ex-) boyfriend a copy of The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. I loved the book, I loved the message, I loved the simplicity, and I loved the meerkats. Meerkats kind of had a sentimental significance and I, being all about the symbolism, decided this was the perfect gift. He liked the book.

Moving on.

Saturday night I'm in a local restaurant waiting for a band. I brought a book (no, I do not normally bring books to venues, but this venue allowed for that), the book was The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel. So I should note that I knew the ex (the one in whose honor I celebrated the anti-versary) would be there as he was involved in one of the performances. I'm chatting with his bandmate, book title side up on the table. Ex walks by, notices the book, and asks if it's the same Yann Martel who wrote the book that he read.

Yes. the book that he read. Not the book that I gave him.

No, the phrasing shouldn't bother me, but I should note there was a pause before he said it, and no, he wasn't drunk.

Also I'm having therapy issues and will likely turn in my notice during tomorrow's appointment. Do you give therapists notice when you decide not to see them anymore? this, combined with some other stuff not worth mentioning here left me a bit fragile. but I'll get through it. stiff upper lip! tits up, ass out!

Ah well. I just ordered a Gocco, so, Rocco.