Ithaca, NY

Marya HOrnbacher once wrote about taking a shower fully dressed and then driving somewhere, I believe, it was to see her husband. She was still wet.

AT least I didn't do that, I tell myself. Wurtzel did coke, and then with tweezers, picked out individual hairs out of her legs. For some reason, at the time, this was of absolute importance instead of finishing her book.

Bitch got finished, she wrote, either in her agent's office or the publisher's office. ON the floor.

In the end, I did a lot of dumb things, said even dumber, hoping some magical guy would appear, and say, "Yes, I know. Okay, well, we can all go home now." But that never happened. That's my fantasy.

For a while, I couldn't tell if I was acting dumb or just being dumb or really dumb, or if I had them fooled or just me fooled or if it even mattered. Today, the end result probably would have been the same if I just sat home in this chair the whole time. And not moved. LIke this.

The only possibility that is real, that affects me is if I get on the plane to Ithaca, NY and stay there. Forever. Lost. YOu can't run away from the internet, but you can run away. People lie when they say you can't run away, but they only lie to you. Because, they once had a dream they lost too. And if they lie to you, well, then they can believe they never lost it. It just never existed. That way they can spread their bitterness a little more. Or engulf you in theirs.