I write this with a replacement, smaller air bed I ordered off my family (read: my parents) Amazon account held in one hand, a plastic 26oz bottle of San Pellegrino tucked in my right arm crook, typing with my thumb.
Actually I just sat down for a moment because it was too hard to do.
I spent the morning on my parents couch because I spent the night there because I was chafing too much (“happens all the time” my dad assured me) watching game of thrones and orange is the new black the previous night.
I woke up, meditated, watched my mom make blueberry cupcakes, spent 20 minutes on hold with unemployment insisting I didn’t have work and that no one had offered me a job, made myself a trader how’s salty crunchy non-organic peanut butter sandwich on some new multigrain bread, wrapped it in a paper towel, left, and then came back because I forgot the uniqlo bag full of my headshots and sides.
“If you have dirty clothes just toss them in the hamper,” my mother informed me.
This is 27, 28 if you count the couple of weeks till I’m that.
I’m wearing seersucker shorts and a grey polo my mom bought me (“you look so handsome” she announced).
I almost just elbowed my mostly flat Pellegrino off the top of my boxed air bed.
Also I might have a part in a cool movie I actually wanna be in that someone just emailed and thought of me for.
So that’s cool.
Now I gotta finish this so I can carry iced coffee.
I am a white New York jew.
My hair is curly or wavy.
I’ll take my depression meds on the subway.
My glasses are fogging.