Today's writing

Often I’ll make pancakes with David at sunrise, pass out on his filthy-comfortable carpet, wake to the sound of the garbage trucks come morning. I sleep more easily on his floor than in my own bed. His edgy hospitality puts me at ease.

Tonight I arrive home early: 3 am. I choose the scenic route, top down on my battered Toyota, Marvin Gaye buzzing on the aged speakers. Can I get a witness? Not at this hour. No one populates the roads I choose: not cops, not drunks, not even a stray raccoon. My car cuts through the late-night air, glides through the fog that lets us know we’re in springtime.

Ever since leaving his place I’ve been dogged by my advantages, starting with the freedom that’s landed me here to begin with. Born in one of the richest pockets of the world’s most charmed country, born in the here and now, the most privileged part of history. Born to parents with college degrees, with resources, with the skill and the motivation to provide a floor under our feet, a roof above our heads, and food in our gullets. Educated at top schools, told I could do anything. I’m part of that eighties generation, the kids of self-esteem courses, the recipients of spoon-fed platitudes. Good enough. Smart enough. Doggone it, people laugh at me.

The whining. Always the whining.

I want to pull it out of my brain, stomp it as I once saw Nails do to a mouse. She did the Mexican hat dance on that fucker, then realized that only a pair of Legg’s came between her and the corpse. The term losing her shit doesn’t even come close.