Saturday
I am stuck in structuring my book. I have been here before, and I don't know how to take the next step. I have no one to talk about it with here. I wish I were still in ny, and I can turn to my friend Hanna, and ask if I can buy her a cup of coffee and we'll walk out of our weird FBI warehouse studio and go to this big corporate La Colombe, and I'd describe to her the entire plot of whatever the fuck I was working on, and she would give me the best advice she could off the top of her head. And if I were lucky, and she was stuck too, we'd trade drafts. What a life. Man. And when it got dark, we'd put on our giant jackets and go to this old timey bar called The Ear, and we'd drink whiskies and sometimes flirt with this alcoholic sculptor who was right about to straighten himself out. That glorious period of time when he was the most doomed and most desirable. I miss that life so much but man, I'm glad not to be cold and terrified. Hanna is much happier now and any moment I am waiting for her to win the pulitzer.
Instead, this morning we went to Costco afterwards ate in the car. P kept singing a song that his cool guy life is dead and the lyrics included his chicken bake coming out of a glory hole in a gas station station bathroom. I don't know why I found that so funny I laughed the whole way back.
The other night was my birthday. We took Esme home and she's such a delicious little fatty ball of giggles but it's like as soon as I see my mom I am like, "Oh my god take her take her take her" like she is radioactive, and I run into some corner of the house lay down in fetal position. It's really true what they say that you're a shell of your former self. Shell, is generous. It's the shell and there are these new barnacles that waste your valueable time looking at photos of the thing that ate your insides.
Anyway. One of P's best friends has a film in sundance so we are streaming all the films this year at night. It's funny because P keeps crying. I think the pressures of adulthood and fatherhood have really gotten to him, and for some reason, I know I know but I can't help it, i find it fucking HI-LAR-IOUS.
Instead, this morning we went to Costco afterwards ate in the car. P kept singing a song that his cool guy life is dead and the lyrics included his chicken bake coming out of a glory hole in a gas station station bathroom. I don't know why I found that so funny I laughed the whole way back.
The other night was my birthday. We took Esme home and she's such a delicious little fatty ball of giggles but it's like as soon as I see my mom I am like, "Oh my god take her take her take her" like she is radioactive, and I run into some corner of the house lay down in fetal position. It's really true what they say that you're a shell of your former self. Shell, is generous. It's the shell and there are these new barnacles that waste your valueable time looking at photos of the thing that ate your insides.
Anyway. One of P's best friends has a film in sundance so we are streaming all the films this year at night. It's funny because P keeps crying. I think the pressures of adulthood and fatherhood have really gotten to him, and for some reason, I know I know but I can't help it, i find it fucking HI-LAR-IOUS.