Friday, May 09, 2008


10:00AM - FB leaves for work

10:02AM - Stare off into space

10:28AM - Get productive, get productive, look at my list, my list, yes my cherished LIST, must add to list of things to do. Let's see...get evicted...check. Eliminate all personal sources of income. Check. Become illegal alien. Done. Wow, I'm super efficient.

10:35AM - Stare into space some more and twist hair around while remembering that I used to have a real TV Executive day job. I used to answer my phone like all, businesslike and stuff. I don't even have a phone anymore. I had a phone but I lost it in London and it doesn't matter because no one calls me anyway. What do I need a phone for? I don't even know how to dial anymore. Stupid phones. Who needs a phone anyway?

10:36AM - My hair is so dry, it's disgusting how absolutely DRY my hair is. What is wrong with it? My hair has NEVER felt this dry. Especially when I twist it up here like this or maybe I should leave it down. No, I'll put it back up and that way I can't feel how dry it is. Oh but now it itches, maybe I'll....

10:38AM - Dump half a bottle of olive oil on hair, drop bottle and cover bathroom in oil.

10:39AM - Add to list Clean Up Oil Spill

10:49AM - Check.

11:00AM - Lunchtime. Yeah at 11AM, whatever. Stand at kitchen counter and shovel a pound of leftover pasta into face.

11:15AM - Sit down at piano.

11:16AM - Ok, good, good, sit down and write something. Get out of your head. Stop thinking about everything. Just play and write. Work it out, work it out.
"Maaaaan I wish someone would taaaaalk to me...." No no no. That's bad.
"Sure would be niiiice if I understooood what you saaaaaaay..." Horrible. Next.
"I smell like an illeeegal saaaalaaaaad...."

11:26AM - OK just forget it, I give up.

11:35AM - Surf the net doing "research".

12PM - Lunchtime again. Shovel more pasta into face.

OK, ENOUGH. Put the baguette DOWN, go wash the bottle of olive oil out of your hair you moron, take off that crappy shirt and PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Put on a skirt and some heels and for Christ's sake, put some makeup on. Yes yes, poor you. So sad for you to live in Paris and how awful it must be to go wander around the city on a bright spring day. My heart burns with sympathy for you and I might drown in my own tears. Cut the Flowers In The Attic act and just get the hell out of the apartment, OK?

Where's my tiny, tiny violin?
"Oh blaaaaackness of niiight, why'd you have to maaaake me live in Paaaaaaaris...."

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