(no subject)
Sometimes I wish I could run into myself on the street, defying physics and probability just to brush shoulders, lean in intimately, and whisper close to my own ear in the way that inevitably gives me shivers, "Don't worry, everything is going to work out just fine."
Because I'm certain that I'm the only one that really and truly believes it when I whisper it to others.
In other news.
Things are relatively fabulous. It's better than even I thought it would be, living with Lily again. I'll admit, my mother's well meant poison worried me at first. But if I hadn't thought things would be good, I wouldn't have initiated the move. End of sentence.
Life in the hood is hilarious. (For those few not in the know, we found a small cottage-y house in the ghetto and promptly pounced on it in early june.) Like clockwork small, sinewy black men make their bi-hourly pilgrimage to the decrepit corner store and come back clutching brown paper shrouded bottles like they've found the grail. Anthony keeps asking me to sleep with him (thick white girls being highly en vogue on this block) and being offended not that I say no, but that I frequently have male friends over. "I bet you let them ride," he groans, already wringing his hands and shooting lusty glances not at me, but towards the corner store before offering to pick me up a beer.
One of the highlights was waking up to a finished forty in the yard and a small, neatly cleaned pile of chicken bones on our porch railing. What can I say, it is a very fine front porch. Another was Phil buying a probably hot boombox off one of the wandering salesmen late one Saturday when we'd all drunk enough to lose whatever sense we had. "He gets a fix and I get a radio for the work truck," he protested, trying out the CD player in a kitchen that still has moving boxes tucked inconspicuously under the table.
There's still room for improvement: missing is my washer and the dryer we've yet to purchase, shelving for the wash room, cable television, a mop, a runner for the hallway, a kitchen trashcan, and the boy. I refuse to worry about any of it at this point, and will let things settle in naturally as they may.
It's like I would tell myself, should I happen upon myself; "Don't worry, everything is going to work out just fine." I'd mean it, too.
Because I'm certain that I'm the only one that really and truly believes it when I whisper it to others.
In other news.
Things are relatively fabulous. It's better than even I thought it would be, living with Lily again. I'll admit, my mother's well meant poison worried me at first. But if I hadn't thought things would be good, I wouldn't have initiated the move. End of sentence.
Life in the hood is hilarious. (For those few not in the know, we found a small cottage-y house in the ghetto and promptly pounced on it in early june.) Like clockwork small, sinewy black men make their bi-hourly pilgrimage to the decrepit corner store and come back clutching brown paper shrouded bottles like they've found the grail. Anthony keeps asking me to sleep with him (thick white girls being highly en vogue on this block) and being offended not that I say no, but that I frequently have male friends over. "I bet you let them ride," he groans, already wringing his hands and shooting lusty glances not at me, but towards the corner store before offering to pick me up a beer.
One of the highlights was waking up to a finished forty in the yard and a small, neatly cleaned pile of chicken bones on our porch railing. What can I say, it is a very fine front porch. Another was Phil buying a probably hot boombox off one of the wandering salesmen late one Saturday when we'd all drunk enough to lose whatever sense we had. "He gets a fix and I get a radio for the work truck," he protested, trying out the CD player in a kitchen that still has moving boxes tucked inconspicuously under the table.
There's still room for improvement: missing is my washer and the dryer we've yet to purchase, shelving for the wash room, cable television, a mop, a runner for the hallway, a kitchen trashcan, and the boy. I refuse to worry about any of it at this point, and will let things settle in naturally as they may.
It's like I would tell myself, should I happen upon myself; "Don't worry, everything is going to work out just fine." I'd mean it, too.