I went to bed at 11:30 and started to read this incredible murder mystery set in 18th century France. I usually hate period novels set in foreign countries, but this one is so juicy I couldn't resist.
It's called 'Perfume,' translated from the original German and written by Patrick Süskind. I've had it for more than ten years, so it's a re-read but with my memory, that's not a problem.
When the author described women, it was done with such sensuality and detail, it woke me up. Made me restless, wishing I had a girlfriend I was already settled in with, without all the new love jitters.
I pulled a few Tarot cards before I got out of bed and they weirded me out. They were the two of cups and another page (or knight) of cups.
It's like a mystery woman is out there, circling like a cougar. Could be someone from my past, but I am not sure how far back in time. Very unsettling.
I am starting to feel like an older, butch version of Carrie Bradshaw, writing a column for some breezy New York newspaper about love, sex and life, the latter of which is about all I have going on right now.
I think I am in romance limbo.
Maybe I need a hobby. Besides this one, I mean.