This is the seventy-fourth time I’ve moved the furniture this month. I can’t think of much else to do. I’m watching re-runs of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and she thinks she’s in a mental institution. Looks like piles of fun. Therapy is bad enough, I can’t imagine what it would be like all the time.

PEOPLE won’t stop calling me. Sometimes I just want them all to shut the fuck up. But I guess that’s my job, right? People call, I help them out, they go back to their lives and I go back to their lives.

I wake up in the middle of the night because my brother used to hurt me.

I wake up in the middle of the night to check my emails.

I can’t go into the garage because that’s where my father hung himself when I was eight.

I can’t go into the garage because I live in an apartment, I don’t have a garage.

I talk to myself because I’m a borderline schizophrenic.

I talk to myself because everyone does.

I go home and I turn on the radio, and I turn it off. I put something from the freezer in the microwave and let it cook for sixteen minutes. I call Rachel but I get her answer phone. I never leave messages on machines. It’s strange because I don’t know what I would say if I did talk to her. I hold my breath as her machine tells me I’ve reached her and she’s out and I should leave a message with my name and number and she’ll get back to me as soon as possible.

I know that she won’t. No matter what I would say, she wouldn’t call back. But that’s just her. She never calls back. But it’s not just me. She doesn’t call anyone if she can help it. I don’t know why that is. I guess she’s just lazy.

It’s time to work, and surprise surprise, I don’t want to. I suppose at least I don’t have to deal with people face to face.

I once told someone that I loved them on an answer phone and she shot me in the shoulder.

I have never left a message on a machine. Ever.

I wear a scarf to hide the scar from when my old best friend tried to slit my throat.

I wear a scarf because it’s the middle of winter.

Work is over and I go home. I turn on the radio and turn it off again. I take something out of the freezer and put it in the microwave for sixteen seconds. I pick up the phone and call Charlie. We don’t say much, but it’s enough. She’s the kind of girl you can say nothing to, but it’s that that really matters.

I use a typewriter because computers are trying to take over my mind.

I use a typewriter because it’s fun to hear them co “clack-clack-clack-clack”.