pig pig pig pig (also austen)

    Dear Harriet Walter,

    The pet shop downtown, which often sells unusual things, has had a pair of very young potbellied pigs for sale this week. One gray, one black. The gray has been sold. The black one I have seen twice, and I've lost my heart to it.

    I only have pictures of it on my phone and I can't transfer phone pictures to my computer, otherwise I'd show you. It is small and hairy and black and has the sweetest face anyone's ever seen, and it makes soft grunting and squealing noises and has soft little feet and when it flops down on its side, it will make happy grunts when you rub its belly. Mumsy, observing me petting it in its bin, said that it seems quite natural for me to be in combination with a piggie. I would agree.

    I want the piggie. So badly. I want it for my very own. I live in a college dorm and my parents are living in an apartment and will be for at least another couple years.

    I keep having to tell myself to love and let go, love and let go, love and let go. Be like a river. Accept things into my heart, love them with all the love they should be loved with, and let go of them. Or perhaps to never hold onto them in the first place. There are (and have been, and will be) so many things that I want and can't have.

    (Mumsy wonders if perhaps I am projecting all of my longstanding suppressed wantings onto the piggie and channeling sadnesses and frustrations into it.)

     Blah, I know nothing about caring for pigs. Pig is better off without me.
    (but i waaaaaaant iiiiiiiiit aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh)


    ANYWAY so my mother and I curled up and watched Sense and Sensibility for the umpteenth time yesterday. Certain parts with certain people still make me crumple with joy.

    You're so good at being so bad.