Twelve Days

I am ready to bundle my old clothes and donate them. Then, to paint the walls in the house. I want bright colors. I want to buy a big, glorious couch and sink into it. I want to read Junot Diaz on that couch. I want to host a dinner party and use my new cookware to prepare the meal. Then I want to serve it on my new plates and drink wine from my new glasses. I want Joseph K to be there. Throwing away old t-shirts, dipping his roller into the paint tray, and hovering over me while I saute the chicken. Always.

The Cat Is Stealing Money From Us

Literally. We left some cash on the coffee table in the basement to pay the air conditioning technician. When I came downstairs this morning, I saw that ten dollars was missing. When I went looking for it, I found it underneath a newspaper in the cat's hiding place. I wish I was making this up. And, yes, the cat may very well be able to read, but that is too much to contemplate right now.

Tonight's Drinking Game

I will drink a quart of vodka every time Hillary utters her bastardized Obama line "Yes she can" during her Indiana victory speech (yes, of course she's going to win Indiana; the only people making it seem dramatic are news channels who have an interest in driving up ratings).

A Little Woozy, A Little Bluesy

I am sitting at Busboys and Poets, enjoying a mint tea and the sounds of people. A high school student scribbles x's and y's, murmuring equations. A young woman studies anatomy and reads longsounding names from index cards. I sit between them, perpetrating, checking my email and editing an article. I miss being a student. Scratch that. I miss feeling like a student. Feeling like your future is open and unknown, every day an answer to the ever-present question, "What will I do when I grow up?" Damn. I am grown up. So what am I doing?