I guess there’s a rule that all public bathrooms must be dank and decrepit. But, if this is a rule, why is it not broken more often? Now that my view is gone, I can’t stop staring at the black mold growing on the outside of the frame of the new building across the street, my new view. Actually, the view I had before this building got to the second floor was the new view, since they tore down the beautiful old house across the street so they could build this new building. I kind of want to take pictures of the black mold, so that when they have a mold problem I can say look, it’s the builder’s fault. I guess this must be what the frame of every new building in Seattle looks like.
When you’ve felt so horrible for so long, it’s hard to imagine what the effects of aging might be. What’s it called when you feel like you’re on the phone with someone, but really you’re just sitting alone, looking at your datebook during your morning meal? What’s it called when smart, politically-engaged people suddenly start speaking in abstract theoretical jargon? Oh, I know: academia. On the street, someone says: don’t do anything illegal in that outfit, okay? A handwritten sign saying SAVE OUR PARK—but from what? Probably they mean drugs, but I wish they meant dog shit. SAVE OUR PARK FROM DOG SHIT. SAVE OUR PARK FROM DOG OWNERS. Yes, probably a good idea to put my face directly into the mattress to see if it still smells like the chemicals I’m allergic to. Speaking of allergies, the sun is out. I know I’m supposed to be excited. I could be excited. I used to be excited. I was excited. I’m not excited yet.