HOW TO...OH! IS THAT MY BAG?; or, PORTLAND, A LOVE STORY; or, HOLY SHIT! DRIVEL.

did someone really spill wine on this shirt? and i just had it made... true that shirts are the least expensive to send, and i understand that you're unfamiliar with the hassle of dry cleaning, but it does still cost money. the bartender got me a drink, yeah, but that wasn't unexpected. rather, there were expectations without your intervention. ungrateful? no. i'm sorry. god. was that my bag? i swear the floor is slanted.

i should be quiet. this isn't my party; but still, thanks for coming. we're so glad you could make it. darling, i know! you only turn thirty once, and i just celebrated the first of my twenty-ninth birthdays. it's the goddamn virgonics. we just congregate here, the late august and early september birthdays. so people in this city should understand then that it's nothing small for us to put on a good shirt and go out to the bar. this bar. clean, smart and picayune.

yes acquaintance that i can't quite remand to any specific introduction, i appreciated your invitation, but i just couldn't be there that other time. and no, i don't smile in photographs. my laugh lines are setting. vanity is a cruel master, HAHAHA. your movie? so's my book. yes, if you don't mind, but just because you're going to the bar.

the blogger and the jewelry designer. all grown up! he IS cute, though. you couldn't have blamed me. or balm-ed me, my first and impulse correct misspelling. i honestly have to say that i think that i was set up for failure that night. sticking to that story. not tonight. no i won't. i'm on a budget, you understand. that night, though, going dutch, that you got fancy for me because we could call it a special occasion. i did have a good time.

oof. a white rose? doesn't she know what that means? please believe me. if we weren't so catty together we couldn't have gotten over the other hurdles. thirty is beautiful on you, but, for me, i really should have committed to twenty-six. and he's, what, twenty-three?

find something on the internet and just go with it. write. but i'll spend that thirty minutes of necessary reading instead on the bicycle doing laps of the neighborhood to tonight's soundtrack. tonight's whatever soundtrack. shuffle makes for surprising profundity after four...or five? which ones were comped and who bought me something?

virgo. you're the smell of too early chimney fires when everyone else just wants to pretend that 80 degrees today portends something benevolent. the portent of the storefronts is benevolent now too. the smell's not so bad. let it rain. and then, break in the soundtrack. "hey, forrest." i won't ruin this by veering into his wheel. i'm not sure if i'm wearing my helmet. "no, just riding before i go home to type." "do you usually ride to come up with ideas?" "i guess i just, you know, ride." you can't smell it, though, so i shouldn't have brought that up. people are good tonight. fundamentally.

i'm dabbing and the spot is just bleeding. is this even going to come out if i take it in? i just went to the goddamn dry cleaner. really? and it's the half of the ideas that i thought were good when i was listening to that whatever important and doing my laps that aren't finding you.

i REALLY don't have the time. but it's the ten minutes in the morning to free write and spare myself the rest of the waste that are the ones that, well, they apparently cost more than this damn shirt. i digress. quantity wins tonight. and the smell. why else would i write on the porch? just make something up, or use the internet -- or the chickens. we're all always good for a laugh. i smiled for that one, even for the lines.

why did i do laundry? i can't be bothered with dressing the bed.

thanks for coming to my party.