from the window of 616 n manhattan ave

I feel like I should dress up for you, but nothing I put on looks presentable. It's one of those days -- where no amount of make-up can possibly transform me into one of those breath-taking girls you admire on page 32 of your Hollywood fashion magazine. My jeans are too tight and a little damp. My impatience pulled them seven minutes prematurely from the dryer. I find my Chapstick in the pocket. Slightly melted, but not completely destroyed. Recoverable. All my shirts hang like drapes over my shoulders...two sizes too wide and two sizes too short. I blame the shape on the manufacturer. I pulled my hair back because it was easiest. The back is still in its awkward stage, a medium length that can't be persuaded to hit my neck and flip under, or flip out for that matter. It lays to the left, mostly. So there I am. Flawed and imperfect, unable to draw 'strikingly beautiful' from the mirror. I opt for sneakers and cover up with my gray hooded jacket. It's Saturday and rainy. Take me as I am.

I start walking, and I change my mind. I turn around and take the car. Half a tank of gas. There's some freedom in that; I can take off and keep going if I so aspire. The sky is full of rain. The parking lot is full, but I pull in just as someone is leaving. They are slow about it, the maroon paint of their rectangle station wagon offset by the blanch white bumper stickers that are too faded to read. Maybe they've lost their passion somewhere between mile marker 230 and Highway 96. Maybe they just don't care.

I slip in and wave to the familiar faces, mouthing "hey" and slipping up the corner of my mouth in a half-smile, not wanting to draw any attention from the strangers and too exhausted for any larger display of joy. Another night with my blankets spread out on the floor because sleep comes inconsistently, and even then only after the pills kick in. My eyes pretend to study the menu, even though I've decided 20 minutes ago what I'm ordering. Pomegranate Italian Soda, for here. I take a spot next to the window. Tomorrow's deadline is impossible to ignore and I'll write for the sake of writing. Alli Rogers strumming away over my headphones. Occasionally interrupted by Schuyler Fisk, and I welcome it. It relaxes me, but my heart's not in this. Uninspired language for the last time.