Fade-itemed, you shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have signaled to me just now. Just help or understand me or at least fucking fake it. Get down on this rug with me. C’mon. Get down on on the clean clean floor. Happiness is maybe tomorrow’s thing-to-do. But for today, it’s all about you, you there with the pillows-piled and the stuffed bears, you feeling me? I mention train tracks, a couple coins, failed attempts at Paul Bunyan tales. But what’s left is just a barking inside. I was born in the South; I know dramatic theater; it’s part of my blood. All I can do is constrain it. Cue drum roll, a drama-filled hum of just-knowing.Cue young people who want their voice to be heard, for they do not understand me—even when I myself was young. Even cranes, even pistons, even apples, even in this city of clumped-up canals and a millionaire’s row—even the monuments have those thick inscrutable wires.

cause for concern? The Pharmacist left me a voicemail earlier this afternoon. He wants to take me out for sushi tonight.
I can't believe he called the next day. Isn't that a breach of unspoken male-female etiquette? I know we girls always bitch about guys taking their sweet time to call back, but... I always suspect a guy of being a closet unsavory type if he calls the very next day.
I thought getting a number was like getting a gun: there's a mandatory 3-day waiting period.
I'm not going. I'm more hungover than I thought and I have too much to do tonight. Plus, I'm not accepting a date for tonight today. I don't care if you're busy later this week. Book in advance, buddy.