It’s clean sheet day, it’s clean sheet day.

My life is ridiculous. Living like this. Ridiculous.

Should I give plasma, should I not give plasma, for the spending money, or sell my last remaining stock, the last reserve of money that was to help me with the move, maybe buy a mattress. The library was closed for another ten minutes so I drove to the coffee shop anyway. Perhaps the credit card will still work.

Try again, don’t try again, I’ve made two pushes towards finding a roommate or several and to no avail, none. I want a nice efficiency in a small house with a small kitchen I clean myself. I want a washer and dryer but if I don’t have them I will spend my time at the laundromat reading. I am growing fond of reading again. It hasn’t been like this for a while. It is a good morning activity for me, good with coffee, I sit like I did when I was five and lose myself in Colum McCann, Phillip K Dick and James Joyce, in succession, as I used to in Hugh Lofting and Betty MacDonald and fucking Walt Morey. I read now like there’s pizza as a reward again, like the list will be completed of course but how many can I get past fifty, all the while believing in the promise of my own personal pan, and the hologram badge, with the stickers. Book It, bitch. I haven’t been so bored with my life in so long that reading seems a natural escape, it is as it is with everything, as it was back then, the path of least resistance, reading because it’s easier than not reading, so I’m not making claims or back-patting myself for the effort. I’m just saying.

Eight years away from the dentist and that teeny dark spot isn’t even a cavity. Suck on that, causality.

Yes I had to look up who wrote Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.

Where does it go, when does it come back, what do I have to do to make it the easiest possible thing to happen. Writing I mean. Fiction I mean. I can write vague nonsense nonfiction as the day is long.

I need to hang out with more women my age, if only so I know what they look like.

I didn’t bring cigarettes because I came here straight from the dentist and you don’t bring cigarettes to the dentist like you don’t bring porn to church, though you’re ashamed of neither, they just occupy two distinct worlds that aren’t supposed to mix. But now I’m left with no means for a proper walkabout, a good break from this, if I go out now the two women who are either twenty or forty will know it’s only because I can’t figure out either of them.

I have been asked where did my passion for this go and I have no answer for that. Or wait, what was the question. When did I stop believing in myself, I think around the time I tried to bring agents into this. If I keep it and don’t let anyone see it I don’t ever have to know its ultimate degree of quality. Richard Ford was on Colbert the other day and said his response to critics is the same whether it’s positive or negative, and that response is You’re missing the thread! That’s not why it is great and that’s not why it sucks! I can tell you exactly why on both accounts, but are you really going to make me spell it out for you? Isn’t it obvious? And if I did spell it out then that would ruin about half of why it is great in the first place! Which is the artifice! The sleight of hand, don’t you get it, just touch your chest right now, the moment you’ve finished reading it, and your heart will reveal all you need to know. The offense comes when you try to use words to communicate the feeling I gave to you with my words, the inevitable result of which will be a karaoke’d version of a classic, a replication, a duplicate of its own quality and timbre and voice, incapable of representing the original because it is made of the same raw material. You want to criticize me, paint a picture, and if the picture is great I will know you thought my work was great, and if the picture is lousy, well, maybe you should get out of the business of literary criticism now because child you can’t draw water from a spigot.

Did you know your Toms are robbing local African shoe merchants of their business? They would do better to give a free pair of shoes to some poor American. Set up a booth right outside of Foot Locker. Here, take these, save your 150 dollars, Michael Jordan has enough money and you look like you could afford to eat a little better than Value Menu this week, fatty.

My Toms, however, are quite comfortable and I’m thinking about getting another pair. Maybe with zebra print on them. Ideally made from real zebra. Because fuck those stripey horses.

YOU.

I’ve got promises to keep. A friend’s novel to read, and then a slew of promises to myself, most of which involve getting my life in order, one of which involves not going to give plasma again because they don’t ever stick you right and I already look like a junkie from the last time money matters pressed down so firmly upon my head. I want some wrist tattoos and I need to find an apartment. So much to do.

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