—a text message I received
August. Haze of hangover all day.
Now it is afternoon. The aftermath
of the worst blow-up. I’m going to
hear about this for the rest of my
life. How to Throw the Worst
Party Imaginable. I question
everything, especially my
biography.
The last couple of weeks are
on the bed for us. It’s all
terrific until what else?
Yuck! I can’t buy any
clothes with no more
money.
I needed this week.
Meaning the days
leading up to the
Titanic hitting
the iceberg.
Such a good
thing shouldn’t
disappear so quickly.
Hating money is
only remorse.
Just forget it
all—play games
on my cellphone.
Which gets quite a
rise out of the audience.
