after contemplating spending another day praying the internet holds up long enough for me to watch an entire episode of anything on surfthechannel.com, i throw a load of laundry in the dryer and visit my neighborhood library. the library is very late 80's, complete with a poster of david bowie in a varsity jacket perched on an invisible chair reading a book.
i leave the library with 3 books: streetcar named desire (i've never read it), i will bear witness (a journal of nazi germany from 1933-1941 because i am the kind of person who can't get enough of the atrocities of world war ii) and killing myself to live: 95% a true story by chuck klosterman (an author i've had recommended to me several times).
klosterman. i almost feel guilty, or sick to my stomach, like i'm doing a bad thing i like his writing so much. guilty pleasure doesn't describe it. i feel like i should be writing down everything i experience.
like today, after laying by lake michigan reading where a shirtless homeless man kept saying "4:13, southside, downtown, northside, it's always 4:13", i went to a diner where i heard they serve raw food (because i am the kind of person that decides eating nothing but raw food for a month is a good idea). and i'm read read reading, as i eat my raw echilada, when the cute gay waiter with red hair and a rat tail suggests i have the pineapple/avodcado raw cheesecake (umm yes!) and a woman sits next to me. she orders the raw enchillada on my recommendation (she looks like an african american news lady from 1997 on her day off in her oversized denim button down and baseball cap) and we chat about our raw diets like it's the most normal thing in the world.
the paragraph didn't have an ending. i work in 45 minutes. i'm a hot child in the city.