Sunday:
An angry pimple grew—about the size of a demon on the left side of my chin this morning. And still, I spent $35 on Chinese takeout the other night.
Monday:
“Your apartment has plumbing damage. More than likely…due to the countless amounts of rodents chewing up the PVC pipes in the ceiling, ma’am. This may take us a few days.”
Tuesday:
Today I thought of my ex, who recently reached out, asking me if I think we made the right decision. Though now, as I write this, I’m fighting back every fiber in my being not to tell him: I have no idea what I even want anymore.
Wednesday:
Mom insist there’s a ghost who lives in her attic that carries evil spirits. Though pest control boldly claims it isn’t so. Except now, all I can think about is that one time in seventh grade when Anna McFay was pushed down the steps. “There’s a ghost in here,” Frankie would say. “And he’s standing right behind you.”
Thursday:
Anyways, I think my neighbor thinks I’m stalking him, though instead I had my headphones in. When I jumped into a jog, he ran the other way, which is currently blocked off as a dead-end.
Friday:
I drove to the park, just a few miles away with a blanket overlooking the water. Splat! Fucking, right down, at the center of my head. A trick shot. “Daddy, a baby seagull!” And of course, mother called. “You’re going to be a rich lady some day,” she said.
Saturday:
I soaked in the tub, for maybe an hour or so, when 3 more demons showed up. Piercing right through my forehead.
Until next time.
“I guess I just have to pick myself up, dust myself off, and throw myself right back down again.” —George Costanza (Seinfeld)
