If all else fails, act as if nothing happened. Catch is, you still wrecked that vase, your mother will notice something's missing in the living room, and you will start panicking when she asks questions. The truth will come out, and you'll get two long bruises in your buttocks, thanks to sheer force and a pretty large block of wood.

In other words, there is no use hiding what you feel.

The point, of course, is time. It's been, what, sixteen months since the biters? Samantha and I don't even talk that much anymore, and we haven't been at each others' necks. When we talk, it's not about "slim" nor "shady", but more about how she's living up to an old, unsuspecting three-year-old nickname. Sixteen months ago they were the boone of my existence. Sixteen months later, uhh, who are they?

But there is another point: space. Within those sixteen months there was virtually no communication. People were removed on Facebook lists - all but one, at least, something about pride - and none of their happy adventures filtered through. Out of sight, out of mind, much like Jenn admitting that she doesn't miss Glee just weeks into the four-month recess. Or maybe me, too, since I've been busy with Lost, thinking about the possibilities. Two timelines! Every bit of interaction erased! Or is it? Because there's time, and there's space. They're not totally separated by it. Intrinsic connections. They will never get over what they have to get over with.

(I should've preceeded that paragraph with a spoiler warning.)

The last time this happened, it was just two months in. I was totally pissed. Totally pissed. The next time it will happen, it's been eleven months in, and nothing much has changed, except perhaps for useless savings in system resources and a worsening case of paranoia. You saved yourself from being shut out, but you get more shut out in return. "Sorry, inside joke." That should've been insulting. That should've been absolutely insulting. But I wasn't insulted, and I thought that was wrong, and here I am, dreading to sleep because it means waking up and going to work and leaving early and putting into swing all those unwarranted scenarios I played out in my head last night.

"So how are you?"

"Okay lang." Then she gives you crickets in a cage. "Live with it."

If all else fails, act as if nothing happened. Catch is, you still wrecked that vase, your mother will notice something's missing in the living room, and you will start panicking when she asks questions. The truth will come out, and you'll get two long bruises in your buttocks, thanks to sheer force and a pretty large block of wood. But it's just a vase, and two long bruises. Soon it will be gone - at least if what remains of the vase is cleaned up.

Remember, it's just lunch with a colleague, an attention whore and a cold hard bitch. It can't go wrong, right?