Maybe You're A Non-Fiction Writer.

I haven’t had an idea in forever. I haven’t noticed anything weird or criminal or suspect or anything at all at Target lately. None of the new face creams look interesting. Mostly I just go in and shop and leave. That is highly unlike me. I almost re-named Legless Joe “Curtis” last night. A couple weeks ago, I got free coffee on both Saturday AND Sunday because the House Blend wasn’t finished brewing. Legless Joe wasn’t there. I haven’t seen Legless Joe in a while. Is that anything?

At least I still recognize a good sentence when I hear one. Ashley comes up with them on a daily basis. (“That is some out-right fuckery.” “You don’t know how to love.”) Ashley’s my new work buddy, and man, am I glad I finally made a friend here. It’s been a year of me against the world. I’m so surprised they haven’t fired me. Seriously, how many times can you pick a fight with your boss before you get fired? I couldn’t care less if something is misspelled in an email. That is bad in a copy editor. Which technically I still am, but I don’t feel like a copy editor any more. I feel more like a Bond girl. I’m kidding. I wish I felt like a Bond girl. I went to The Gingerman the other night in my pajamas. I feel like a student, which I am. I buy scantrons. I get extra credit. I bring two pencils.

I can’t remember the last time something made me apoplectic. I haven’t shaken my fist in anger in months. No one is stupid in my classes. Do I have flat affect? I mean, yeah, I guess it’s good that the woman who can’t figure out that water hoses are in the garden department and Darfur refugees haven’t elicited the same level of outrage recently. But surely something has irritated me.

I am irritated that I have been reading “Daniel Deronda” since October. Are you effing kidding me? October? I haven’t read for pleasure since I bought that freaking book. I have “Northanger Abbey” and “The Good German” on hold. I refuse to start something new until I finish DD. I won’t even let myself read something else simultaneously. I’ve been reading Lucky and Marie Claire every month. They’re irritating me because they slip in anti-smoking copy but still run cigarette ads. Fuckin’ advertising.

Another Ashley gem just came in: “I think you need to go back to sentence school.” She uses four periods in her ellipses. That Ashley. What a card.

I have five kinds of soap in my shower. (Lime verbena, pink grapefruit, minty something, Scottish gardener’s mossy-green smelling, and pink Dove because it smells like my grandma. I’m out of lavender.) Also, I broke my other foot on St. Patrick’s Day. That is not how I intended to commemorate the fifth anniversary of my last one-night stand. The Streak remains unbroken.