I’m sleeping on the couch.
Except mom thinks it’s depression. Though it makes sense. I quit my job, so maybe she’s right.
I don’t know. Maybe a part of me is dying inside. And of course, I’m crying right now.
And I think I’m being used in some way to…I don’t know. Like a metaphor to life. For life’s own purpose to understand itself.
Though Robbie thinks it’s hormones.
Unbelievable.
I told him how much he meant to me and realized that men are just as fragile.
Great. So now I’m highly sensitive and emotional as fuck. A complete mess.
Meanwhile, I just insist on bingeing through shows on Netflix like how am I gonna pay rent next month?
And of course, I don’t want to think about it but I do think about it.
Like how am I gonna pay rent next month?
And Mickey called this morning, “how are things going with the new book?”
The new book?
“How are things going with the new book?” I mean, it’s that right there.
Dreaming. Dreaming is more than half of my problem.
I mean, “luxuries such as these can’t be afforded where we come from.” Quoted from the man himself, Frankie Ray outside of Lettie’s deli shop with 2 paper cigarettes tucked behind his ear.
And yet, that’s all I ever seem to do…
“Babygirl, you got a dollar I can borrow?”
Until next time.
“Look up *Bella, say cheese.” — Circa 97
