Over and over tonight, I keep mistaking the grey guitar pick on my desk for a cockroach. I want to move it so I can finally relax about it, and yet I don't.
How late is too late to call someone? Eleven? What if they are an hour behind you? What if they are over fifty? What if they are over fifty and adhere to the status quo--at least on the outside? (I'm not talking about you, Mom, in case you were wondering. I'd call you whenever I needed, despite.)
My first New Yorker arrived today, a magazine I used to read all the time, borrowed from friends, from office buildings, from street corners where they lay in trash cans. Now my very own. What a treat. And yet. Another something to throw in the garbage.
Still no job. And the gnawing contiues. One wonders what else to DO. Because I've always gotten by from doing. And relying on the friendship of italics.
And then this, an old Ani D song which creeped its way out of my hard drive and slid into my ear as I listened to the rain on the sill: "and did i tell you how i stopped eating? when you stopped calling me, and i was cramped up shitting rivers for weeks and pretending that i was finally free."