Note to self

My boxes came. Twenty-two plus a box spring. The poor Puerto Rican dude who dropped them off was struggling. He has the flu. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.

Erica’s friend Moody came by with his friend Bobby to move the boxes. They had this red headed girl with them who kept saying “Cheers” instead of “Thank You.” Only she wasn’t British.

Those kids (the guys) knocked out moving everything faster than I could have imagined. Which was kinda hot. Speaking of which, they were sweating bullets in this thing called “humidity.” I think that’s how you say it? Not really sure.

One of these days soon, I’m gonna have me a bed. And one of these nights I’m gonna sleep in it. It’s gonna be off the chain. Do people still say that?

I went to the deli to get cash and a Snapple. On the counter they had little green vials, like the kind they keep Botox in. I asked the cashier what they were for and he said, “Energy. Energy for men.”

“Why not women? Do you have energy for women?” I asked.

“This is for women.” He pointed to a case next to the register. To a bunch of boxes…of dildos and vibrators. I figured it out. It was Spanish fly in those vials. “No woman on this block is unsatisfied.”

I laughed. What else can you do? Sex is everywhere. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here writing this and you wouldn’t be there reading it.

Speaking of which, Bobby asked Moody to ask me for my number. And me over here looking like garbage left out in August.

First thing I did when I was alone with my boxes was dig out my gold hoops. Next comes the red lipstick. And then, only then, will I start to feel like me again.

Babysteps. Bay-bee-steps.

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