i am almost certain that the coffee of last night's meal needed some quotation marks: at best, it was "decaf." never have i wished such a thing, but some air quotes on the part of my waitron might have been nice. i might have had some chamo and might be asleep right now. i could be dreaming nice things.
instead i'm awake, here, clacking in the dark, aimlessly, having exhausted all entertainment possibilities out of the internet. believe it, it's true.
i had the shocking revelation that i made no posts in february. my archive skips a month. which is sad because the month was quite eventful for me and my drafts folder.
a recap:
not pregnant, not married, not changing my address. no job yet, not officially. hands chapped from the cold. not thinner, not fatter, not the owner of any new clothes. read books, conquered fears, completed assignments in a timely manner. crushed. if apartments were romances, had my heart broken by the one that got away. if jobs were romances, went to the next level. if romances were romances, and they are, we'd have to find another metaphor to use. like finances. grew the bank. got crazy tax returns. saved for retirement. imagined being old as a certainty.
i'm nauseous with not sleeping. i'm feeling every minute of wine hangover. we didn't eat enough food, my girl friend and i. we talked about having babies. the other baby talk.
i remember once i'd just write and write, and it'd be whatever and that'd be fine, but now there's pauses and stops. now i rest at each step, not seing the next turn, wanting to consult a compass or map, wanting some guidance. some delivery. there is no natural end.
fucking coffee.