Here’s the thing about being a writer. I can spend four months obsessing about three dozen people who do not objectively exist, their hopes and dreams, their heroic actions and tragic mistakes, and consider it completely normal. They call this “writing a novel.” But I meet somebody I like and I spend a week thinking about them from time to time, and yes, writing a few poems, and I think I am getting completely out of hand. I suspect they call this “being human.” Hard to say, as something like this hasn’t happened to me in about twelve years.
So I am sitting here at work with my Wonder Woman mug that my office buddy gave me for Christmas and trying to stop obsessing. Surely if anyone can help me, it’s Diana Prince, Amazon extraordinaire. Sigh. No such luck. I feel like Calvin & Hobbes.