Mi casa no es mi casa

Moving has sucked the art right out of my brain, the coordination and grace out of my otherwise poetry-in-motion body and strangely the ability to shave my legs without nicking the fuck out of myself, um, out of me. In other words I’m dense, bruised and covered in bandaids. Last time I moved I sliced the palm of my hand with scissors because it was early in the morning and the mover got mad at me for not taping the boxes as I was a moving neophyte and so I launched into a disastrous taping/cutting frenzy and so I’m used to the way moving is literally painful. But still. Motherfucker!

We chose couches which was arduous in itself since, if you’ve ever seen me try to make a decision you would know that I can’t do it but then the delivery men came with the couches and couldn’t get them up the staircase and so back they went to the store. We have a giant living room and three wicker/bamboo chairs. We live in a bottleneck. We also have a million unpacked boxes. Correction, they are opened, and perhaps one thing has been removed from them, but the whole thing makes me tired.

Have you ever gone on vacation and you’re distracted and have a headful of native whatever and you manage to find a computer somehow and maybe if it’s Hawaii the password is “dolphin” or “aloha” which really, how fitting, and then you sit down and you have like 8 million emails and you can only summon a couple sentences if even that becuase you’re out of your element and can’t be your usual witty dazzling self and it’s like in those moments where you’re waking up from a dream and trying desperately to figure something out (like your own phone number) but it’s insurmountable and hazy and frustrating. Such is trying to string words together. Good thing I’m employed as a writer.

Of headlines!

I would like a puppy.