Squirrelly

Mr. Moon got home and I was so quiet and I was on the bed, reading the New Yorker and I stayed quiet and he came in and read for awhile and then we both fell asleep and it rained hard and then it stopped and he got up and he's washing my car and trying to get the paint off where I accidentally skimmed the fence pulling into the driveway one day and also all the bird shit and cherry laurel cherry stains and waxing it and I've done nothing but go collect two eggs, both unremarkable except for the fact that eggs are miracles. You know. Regular miracles. Every day ones.

I feel squirrelly and have had thoughts all day about things like maybe starting to spend a month every year either in Mexico or Roseland, all by myself and thinking that maybe this is what I need to do or maybe I need to go to grad school although there is nothing in this world that grabs me and makes me think ooh, I would like to do THAT, not one damn thing but being a writer and if sitting here and writing here every day twice a day isn't being a writer then I don't know what is. Fuck it. I'm never going on a book tour anyway, they mostly don't exist any more. Here. Let me print you out a few thousand of my posts and staple them all together- that's a book, right?

I have a stapler.

I just finished reading a book that was one of the worst pieces of crap I've ever read. I'm not even going to say the title. It was written by a woman whose mother was famous and whose husband is famous and she was on the TeeVee for awhile and Jerry Seinfeld tells her she's really funny but honestly, she's not that funny. On the page at least. Maybe in real life she's funny. Her only trick is hyperbole and even in a short book with big font, that can get old fast. She's cute though and is on the front cover in a bathing suit and on the back cover in a maid's uniform (don't ask me why) and yes, I am bitter. She actually refers to a house she was living in as looking like it was built by Habitat For Humanity.
I don't think that's funny. I think that houses built by Habitat for Humanity look like love and hope with walls.
Maybe that's just me. Maybe that's funny to people who grew up fabulously rich with famous mothers. Maybe that's what passes as piss-your-pants hysterical for people who never lived without running water.

Sundays are just hard and that's true for many of us.

I am so imperfect that it's stunning. I just wanted to tell you that.

I have the boys tomorrow so I'll have something cheerful to talk about then.
May not be funny, but at least it'll be cheerful.

My lips miss Gibson's face. That was not meant to be funny. It's just the truth.

Yours in bitterness...Ms. Moon