Christmas 2006. Probably the most feminine I’ve ever looked without trying.
The two Fridas, 1939 and 2012.
Last night about 2:15am on my bike ride home I was hit by a taxi at the corner of Le Moyne and Maplewood. This driver ran a four-way stop sign and I saw it happen but just could not brake or get out of the way in time. I struck the hood of the cab and I think I rolled over and ended up on the pavement and then stood up and said “What the fuck?” approximately fifteen-twenty times and then just plain “fuck” a few more times. The driver got out and asked if I wanted some water and I said yes, I did, and then it turned out he didn’t have any water. I walked my bike over to a nearby stoop and told the driver I wanted his information, in case I had some medical shit to take care of, and he wrote down his name (Ali) and phone number and who he worked for. I gave him my name and number, too. I have a weird blood blister thing on my right hand and my knees are bloodied and beyond sore, but I was wearing a helmet and I was sober so that might have helped. I came home and took a shower and held my bent knees one at a time under the hot water for a good long time. I slept for a few hours and then saw that I had bled through the Band-Aids and there were stains on my bedsheets (in addition to the doo-doo stains that are always there, I mean.) At one point in the night I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table and ended up knocking it over, spilling water and breaking the glass, at which point I said, “Oh, come on now!”
Anyway, the whole point of this not very dramatic story is: You cannot kill the Gator. I am still here.
A thing that was on the wall in my hallway last week.
Some things on the walls in my room.
Earlier this week I said that when this beloved cardigan, which I bought circa 2004 and is my favorite thing I think I have ever owned, is finally holey and falling-apart enough to be retired (which is gonna happen sooner than I would like), I’m gonna cut off a swatch of it, burn the rest of the cardigan, and then take that swatch with me to the grave. I said it as a joke but I’ve thought about it, and I think I really do mean it.
A fat, frustrated, “fuck everything” dude
— Emily Joynton’s stunningly accurate description of me
