I lie upside down on the sofa, I change bandages, I analyze my toenail polish. I eat antacids. I make mix tapes. I think about how only privileged white men use the term "ass-hat". I chew my cuticles. I play solitaire. I tweet, I follow. I let this cat on my lap attempt to hypnotize me with her purring and drowsy green eyes. I think about what I'd like to write--who I'd like to insult, the fucks I've had, other people's secrets I'd like to spill. But I remember I'm not so anonymous. And I realize that I am held back. I make a note to change that. I eat dark chocolate. I decide that Violator is Depeche Mode's best record. I stress about starting a new job on Monday. I debate how conservative my heels should be. I think about Burt and his bees. I watch the clock. I use the dog as an ottoman. I think about the man I saw fishing--with a pole. and a bobber.--in the man made pond at the Mexican restaurant on Friday night. I itch. I think about masturbating, but that's such a cliche. I wonder if I should change my signature scent. I have to go to the grocery store. I have to iron shirts. There is yard work to be done. I wonder if the Elvis on the license plate across the street refers to Presley, or Costello, or some Latino in a denim shirt somewhere. I get sucked in to online slideshows.
But I don't sleep.
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