Notes on Boredom, Curiosity and Unmentionables

Notes on Boredom, Curiosity and Unmentionables.
(Irreverence + Resuscitation =Grace Beats Karma)

I’m really fucking on.
Yet, there’s no time and place to tell.

I gave my telephone number out. Something that I almost never deliver.
Don’t give away the goods too soon
is what my Mexican mother might have told me
as it sounded much sweeter in Spanish.
And the gentlemen whom I had slipped it to told me that it was (utterly) “unsolicited”
Before noticing that he had recently grown facial hair, something that I might be a real sucker for, I said aloud:
That’s my line, dick!

Sometime before this minor altercation, and I was drunk, he told me he always sees me this way.
Weeks earlier, he whispered a line in my ear like this:
Why’d you have get so drunk and turn me on that way?
And I would say something matter-of-factly and from a great: How can I be drunk? I’m just drinking beer.

Moments later I would fall down in the street and fumble towards some old tomcat feelings.

They came around this time at quite a reasonable hour on my former lover’s front door, in spite the very fact that I began drinking at a not so reasonable an hour.
I gave a few slow and subtle taps as if reason has suddenly come back to me
Like a wind, a resuscitation of sorts that told me No. Stop.
a few more times
And one lb. away.

Got pulled over and somehow got myself out of the allegations of speeding and swerving and even mistaking the officer’s gender.

A friend who, 1.) on occasion places me in a seedy, rude corner 2. talks only somewhat pretty and 3. sometimes makes love to me
A trilogy of something I have no idea what it looks like from far away-all of which only moderately (or is increasingly) irritating me.

I told him one time that I had a good line on him. Where, sober, as I certainly was not, inevitably meant, I figured something out about you. Things will be different now. But, that’s all boring.
Hopefully, I didn’t let my guard down too far in the messages that followed-all of which I have no recollection. No resuscitation here. Perhaps something of a parallel universe. Still so boring.
Fuck it. It was the only thing that I knew about at that particular time.

Yelled at a cop. I think I called her a meter maid.
I wasn’t drinking beer.
I was drunk.

Hung over and thought for a moment that I should be more of a lady.
I went to the lingerie shop, where they sized me up and charted it all down. My tits got bigger, but the lady with the measuring tape had really bad perfume on so I only bought a few hot numbers.

I had a toothache but didn’t go to the dentist to find out about it.
The office space is too small and smells like latex and he’s known me since I was a little girl and couldn’t bear to let him see me this way.
I drank away my hangover and smoked a little reefer.

I stayed home from whatever I needed to do that day. I think it was Tuesday, and worked on some of my writing.
By two, I wanted a glass of wine and thought about hitting on the mailman when he came around.
I thought about Judah instead.

These are all things that go unmentioned in letters sent back to New York.