Dear Universe

I have this ridiculous sense of entitlement that stems out of a perverted kind of privilege. At some point during my childhood I decided that you, Universe, will one day pay me back. Because childhood was so.... less than ideal. And not honeyed. No rose coloured glasses or emerald coloured glasses could have made childhood sweet smelling or sweet looking. And traumatizing. So I think I've lived the rest of my life- my adult life- expecting you to make up for it. I refuse to give up this entitlement.

I guess this is called HOPE. Can we call it that? It sounds wrong and maybe that's not actually what HOPE is, but thanks, U, for inspiring some thing. 

With respect,

Hopeful Nat

You named your dog "Sunday"

Yeah

Sunday

Yes. After Sunday in the Park with George.

That's not a name.... that's.... that's a when!

No. Sunday is a DOG!

Why not Park or George?

Because.... look. *Calls out "PARK!" and waits.... "GEORGE" and waits...."SUNDAY!" in a sing song voice and the dog runs in tail wagging.*

See... Sunday doesn't respond to those names. Besides. Sondheim

Sondheim is also a name.

*Sunday Growls*

As I was saying... Sondheim references are so cliche these days... but no one will get "Sunday" and it'll be special. Between me and Sunday. And I guess you.

You're.... Joe sighs and walks away and changes the subject.

Once

At the end of the show, he turned to me and said, "So they end up together, right?"

The guy who couldn't, wouldn't, (so glad he didn't!) commit couldn't just breathe it in. He couldn't just reward the fact that I showed up - his un true-love- to the date we planned months before we even got together AFTER we broke up. He  couldn't just say, hey, this girl is classy and I will enjoy my evening with her in spite of the impossibility of us being together.

I wish I had a rotten tomato.