Wheat-paste

I've known for a while something is going on, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it; couldn't quite give it a name. Well, I still don't have a name for it, but I know what it is; I've been here before. Ten years ago or there about, fresh out of school, living on my own in a huge empty loft in the burned out shell of a dying downtown in St. Louis, I slept my way through most of the fall and winter, subsisting on Cream of Wheat and Ballatore. It just so happened that the loft shared the same block with the hot gay dance club, Fallout (or 'falldown' when it got to late), and being 24 and single, I should have been working hard to ruin my reputation. But I sat in that loft on weekend nights, in the low-haze of candles shrouded in blue glass and watched the comings and goings of all the fun people through my blinds before I'd crawl back to my pallet-style futon and sleep for another 36 hours. When I finally left St. Louis (with my Mom saying, "honey, you just need to do something and get out of there") the following Spring, I'd lost 25 pounds that I really couldn't afford to lose and looked stretched and worn down. Of course at my very worst, the sack of skin dragging around all the broken pieces I was got my ass to New York to heal myself in all it's delusional grandeur -and by heal I mean, be really, horribly, carnally available. And that's when the Love Monkey met me and took my pieces home with him.

And so I'm starting to feel there again. When I bought the box of Cream of Wheat this weekend to help quench the overriding desire for wall-paper paste, Jeff looked at me and just gave me the, "you can't be serious" look. I bought it anyway.