mmcciv

Your Independence Is Killing Me!

Yesterday, I stopped at my checking account,

but apparently I got lost after that.  Did I

a) clean the apartment considerably?  It

could be that I considered cleaning the

apartment.  That is, on a scale of 1 to 10,

extremely messy at the moment.  This,

and given that 10 equals b) should be 
your biggest clue.

I like that I live here.  Also the immediate

retort (or often more like a snort) of

“Snob Hill” ('more like', simply, an upturned

nose, as if directly after becoming ill, or ill-
informed, someone just gets it).  Beams

all strange, but, you know, beams,

walking with the students on Pine Street,

which is most of the faces I ever see.

Those and dogs called pugs, who are

probably mostly students at the Academy

of Art.

Would I really know?  I only speak with

Tony at the cash register down the block,

and with cabbies to and from.  Not the

block.  But, basically.

One could draw out a pretty long argument

about most of the students of the Academy

of Art, of course; it’s never too early to

cast your case.  I’ve taken to verbalizing

this and other probabilities when my

lower back is so tightly wound with pain

that I can’t even walk away from formality.

I’ve been rudely informed that it’s time.

For me to sit down a bit.  Or if I said

“for a spell” – you know, rather than

“a bit” – this chronic lover that speaks

of nothing but pain.  “Bring him his chair

full of cake and rubber you

colossally glum sacrum; you

bitch-hound of an art-

hritic coccyx!” 

“In absentia.”

“In absentia.”