You won't take my love for tender

My stovetop exploded in a shower of sparks today. I was boiling spaghetti when the range coil fused with the pot, gashing and twisting the coil, blowing a hole in the bottom of the pot, and sprinkling bits of metal over the nice bowl of salmon alfredo I'd prepared so lovingly and left on the counter. The resulting hole in the pot then caused the water to fall out onto the red-hot coil, and a small fire quickly both started and was put out. Kitchen drama!

My Prozac really must be working now. Relations with the Maddening Angel are polite to friendly, but nowhere near the previous level of deep, siblingesque friendship they were back in October or so. Today, after her shift ended, she called to ask me to eat something before she had to be at a party somewhere, but I had just eaten. I said that I'd go with her and just be company, but she said no, she was going to eat with someone else. See, a few weeks ago, maybe even last week, that would have had me indignant and resentful and severely depressed --- crying, raging, the whole works. Now, even though the Friar called off a dinner tonight and I'm doing nothing on a Friday night, I feel only mildly self-pitying. Ah, Prozac. Ask for it by name at your local high school parking lot.

Oh, and last night, Ram texted me. I hadn't contacted her since Sunday. (Although it's common currency that girls like attention, I have actually found that many respond better to being left alone; is this the case?) So we had a text chat, she suggested dinner "some time," and I told her how crowded my schedule was but that I'd try. As a follow-up, I called her this morning, and she texted back, for once. Ram's a weird one. She said some extremely affectionate things to me last month, implying that she was strongly interested in being a part of my life, then basically ignored me for a month. I like her a lot, but have only feeble hopes for this to turn into a Thing: too much baggage on both ends, maybe.