the habit of being

I wrote Mary Robison an email saying I want to be a writer just like her, comparing her to Joan Didion and Faulkner, the only other writers who ever made me feel like that.

I accidentally dyed all of my summer clothes pink, with a red shirt that must’ve been hiding. This marking the one-year anniversary since the last time I bought myself a new outfit. It’s been that long since I could afford it.

My boyfriend broke up with me. This time because he found one of the personal ads I placed online. Said he would’ve answered it, must’ve loved the right girl. It’s been seven months since the last time we had sex anyway. Last time we made love.

Have dates with two separate 6′2″ 25 yr olds. 25 seems awfully young. One of them has a beagle named Winnie. An apartment on Union Square. The other one is prettier than me. I could still back out.

There is a child screaming in the street below my window.

Two things I miss the most: the South and my mother. Really. Not just right now because I’m sad.

Ran into a girl I went to high school with in the lobby of the building where I work. This would be less weird if I were not from Statesboro, Georgia.

He tried to back out of breaking up but I wouldn’t let him this time.

I have to type up a Mary Higgins Clark novel to use for a reading experiment in the lab. I keep thinking about how Diane Arbus worried that looking at all her students’ bad photography would somehow damage her own.

Making my own coffee again. There’s a crack in the bottom of the French press.

It’s been how long since I wrote anything? I have how many things I’m supposed to write?