diary entry

Deeply and irrevocably sticky today. Jam hands coated in rain and humidity and a kind of sweat that is jostled between skin and makeup. I wrote a pretty fabulous email to Alex at work, artful, unique, touching. He liked it even when it veered into pretension. He likes me even when I veer into pretension, I think. I’ve noticed that when I walk a certain way I also notice people staring. It's a chicken or the egg because I think when I walk the regular way I’m less observant. I even notice the heft of my own presence around a table. The table of today was surrounded by a silver high heel chair, a radio man, a good new blue pen, and a vaulted dome painted by some beautiful and famous musician. I ate a marinated egg over rice with spinach and avocado. Whipped up this morning and doused in too much sauce. It was a goop going down at the end. 

Mentally, I’m feeling perpetually foggy and dewy. Like a summer-break child released from homework who has also been drinking beer. I drank too much last night due to an $8 pitcher deal and felt momentarily drunk. The night before that I was in the country and lost some red wine to the porcelain gods. I didn’t tell a soul I threw up even though I’m sure Nic could hear it. She may have been sleeping. Ever dewy, I washed my mouth out and accepted an added degree of fog to which I could manage. I’ve started living in a base amount of it, but not for so long that I can’t remember what a clear mind feels like. Words come to me in jolts now, filling my notes app with middling, unrelated phrases that make me furious to look back on. They are representations of what little inspiration I feel under this dense cloud. Snappy quips come to me occasionally and under pressure. 

Last night at kgb bar a flailing, famous comic on stage asked me whether or not the count in sesame street was jewish coded. I felt relieved when my answer got laughs from the room. I was drunk + funny. He came back on stage five minutes later, asked the same question to Be, and demanded that everyone clap because he was doing it for a video. Outside, I overheard him saying what an embarrassing mess he’d been and erratically stalk down 2nd avenue. He’d been making other jokes about his summer of penixation, so I didn’t feel bad and I wasn’t drunk anymore. In the bathroom a woman approached me under the eaves of the stall and called my poetry “particularly sentient.” 

The cloud thickened and I made my way home after stuffing the directions to Nic’s apartment into her pocket because she was too drunk and her phone was dead. I thought about rolling a great cigarette when I got back, but I felt the slurry of japanese beer in my stomach and opted for a dirty Dead and Co t-shirt and bed. 

Now I’m looking at Roku city and thinking that I live there more than anywhere else. The movie theater in it looks like IFC Center and the Godzilla across the water isn’t too far from the truth. We play godzilla pinball everyday in Jersey City between stints swallowing egg-rice-avocado goop and thumbing through powdery records. I’m doing a project right now where I relabel and organize compilation LPs. I’ve only finished the so-called “traditional” section, whose contents contain everywhere from jazz standards to bird calls. I rip tape, I write in sharpie marker, I alphabetize, I crinkle and lock my knees, I ween off of coffee, and I am the good law herself, thumping to found music compilations. 

There is one record that surfaces in my life from time to time called Finger Lickin’ Good. Its cover is a picture of a woman’s torso, seated in nothing but brightly colored underpants. One hand is down her pants and the other is gripping a bucket of fried chicken. I’ve never heard it, but its cover delights with waves of disgust and admiration. Goop is a bucket and soft skin between thighs strikes me as a combination too crisp and visceral. Gnawing on a puck of carrot shwoomped in hummus. Bell peppers peppers on the razor’s edge.