Today is the day where night gets shorter. Neither good nor bad.
I have the blandest prose to offer you, but I feel I must babble on a bit as it's my most special of daze. This is my anniversary a bit. I have to write to you from work in a sober and stale state of mind.
That guy, doug, that invited and went with me to an art opening just stopped by the gallery. He came by to tell me that he didn't sell any of his art and that he's homeless now. He smelled horrible and his teeth were black. He's slipped into no home. What could I say? many things. What did I say? "oh doug, that's horrible. I'm babbling. I am trying to be pollyanna about it all, but it just sucks horribly." He had a bag stolen with all his art. He showed me a picture of his sister and said that it had made him cry - her card. Then, when I was finished looking, he told me to throw it away - it depressed him too much. I refused. I gave him a pen and paper.
The minute he left, ed from next door, came in and said how much he stank. I told ed he had just gone homeless. Ed just shrugged and declaimed the stench.
I have $5 in my back pocket. I will soon have my apartment or marks at my disposal, but I said none of this.
I am writing a reader's digest tome. Boring you.
I go to therapy today in two hours. I will likely have this as my premiere session as it's all up in the air whether I'm insured or not.
The African that plays chess with Trek is by today. He was more flirty than usual.