i was texting with mary about the grim daughter to see if she knew her. i told her she was harassing mister and me every time she saw us. in a good way? she said. unfortunately, no, i said, her harassment is bad. i wanted to ask what good harassment looked like, but i can't text too well. she said, she doesn't like dogs? and i said, not free. i think she's just a hater. too much cormac mccarthy. i was on the point and the cold fog was dripping from the trees and i thought of gramma rose's suicide sister they said read too many russian novels, suicide by literarure, but in truth she was wed to a bastard and escaped by hanging herself. 
i bet the grim daughter is trapped somehow too. probably not just in her bleak dissertation. mary said you'd think she's be kinder. he's a golden for crying out loud. like a walking fuzzy hug. who can hate on that?? i don't think it's the dog. i think it's more me. she can't bear the freedom, even the simple freedom of not being collared and leashed. in her mind it's me being uncivil, taking advantage, it's my outrageous freedom. i said to mary, i think she's a dead soul. and she can't be quiet about it. the grim daughter said to mister, it's not about you, bullshit it's about him and me, and none of your fucking business. you just want to fuck with us. she kept calling me sir, condescending, and i said i'm not a sir and she said no you're not a gentleman. and you are an asshole, i said. i might have said, ma'am, witheringly. there's no need for profanity she says. of course there is, i say. fuck-ha.

yea, fuck-ha, she's a dead soul!