where to go

I keep writing because I think it will help. I keep sleeping because I think it will help. Rest is restorative, expression, all that. (Help what? not here, i'll tell you another place another time.) I sleep until 11. Read in bed until 12. Broil a piece of toast in the oven slice a tomato that I salt to death and fry an egg in a lot of butter that I dribble on top of everything. There are fruit flies in my apartment because I like to keep my tomatoes and oranges in baskets that hang above the counter. They mold easier but taste better. I’m sure my roommates despise me for this because they all refrigerate everything, even hot sauce. I think that’s disgusting. I buy my own hot sauce and keep it on the counter. 

I would like a person to pop up, agree to be my partner for the time being and not refrigerate Our hot sauce or tomatoes or oranges, split my rent with me, have a friend who knows a guy who can get me a job so we can each pay like $1,500 for a loft in Chinatown. Or I can up and leave the city for a place far away and be all alone again but not buried, not pay so much for food, not smoke such toxic-seeming cigarettes. My heart is flighty and nervous. I had a psychiatrist back home and a job that helped me pay for it. I would like to have her back—at a discounted rate, but alas:

I try to stay out all day. I wrap peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in tin foil so I don’t spend money on food. I grab an orange from the basket for good measure. Sometimes I eat the sandwiches in bathrooms, on park benches, while walking. Sometimes I don’t and save them for the next day of walking. 

Not sure where to go today. Maybe the library, maybe an exhibit that just opened up, maybe Molasses, as per. I have a roll of film to be developed, but I’d need money for that.