in which I get sensational.

there is an overabundance of my own personal hair stuck to the sleeve of my sweatshirt right now. criminy. I am adding apparent baldness to my list of discrepencies with the world right now.


I have been very morose lately. I have draped my flat in black crepe paper and covered all the mirrors. I have taken to wearing long dresses with heavy trains. I constantly collapse across fainting couches, my skin waxen and pale. I shun the sun and prefer to sit in darkened rooms, illuminated only by a single candle. I have taught my cat to croak "Nevermore" upon command. I walk to school on a route obscure and lonely. I eat spoiled caviar and drink sweet red wine spiced by my own tears. I do not watch television; I read sensational novels and weep in quiet desperation when the female heroines succumb to sadness and disease.

but soft, what phone call through yonder despair breaks? it is the temp agencey, and joann, my sun. she tells me she is trying so hard to find me jobs because she "just loves me". her job is in mathematical underwriting. I begin to wring my hands because I am shit at math. she assures me that all is well, and gallantly adds that she will find me a job.

I put on orange shorts and do the hokey pokey in my front room.



I mean, I HAVE to find a job someday, right?