Skating Party Decorations
My favorite panties Yesterday was April 3: the anniversary of my mother. Two days before the first was the day my parents were married. April Fools that lasted almost 30 years, until death do them part. Not really a laughing matter.
It was a shock when I realized what day it was yesterday. I spent the week not knowing what day it was. I had appointments, promises of sweet day, drinking aperitifs, friends to see. And then the erosion. Person on the line. Everything vanishes. All I therefore unavailable.
Even from the one I most need.
only at the bar, I sit alone, we recognize me, I partied, I smiled. A bloodymary, red tomato and vodka, a drink salty and spicy life that when I itch. I have nowhere to go, nobody to see, nothing to do. A manuscript to read in my bag, do not leave me. I was going to shut myself up for him to sleep with him: this is the first novel of a man whose talent breaks my eyes on each line. And say that I read, swooning, and he read me say, surprised. Now I am ashamed.
I can link the glasses, and my old friends join me. My old friends the best. Those who saved my life, one on the Great Wall of China, the other in college, when he was a commotion of battle to save my sanity, and the violence of the end of my first love. These friends who are always the great wines of friendship, those that arise at the corner of Canal St. Martin to rob me of a strange torpor. Those friends who know me. With whom I can not pretend anything.
They dine. We drink. We gonna party.
Everything is blurry, except the Cosmopolitan and the ensuing silence on the line that persists when I call. Except when it does not love me good replies. I'm disappointed. 
And I'm back to thinking, without admitting, April 3, to all those who pass away in April always and always, at the beginning, the 1 and 3 that quickly kisses the 2 (who cares of 2), the bad joke that lasted 30 years and the anniversary of a dead woman who did has not celebrated enough, April 3. is Easter, and I do not chocolates. It is not there to hide me in the great apartment, a chicken in white chocolate. I'm kind of vanilla, white chocolate, almond paste. Too sweet to me sick. Sickening. Last night, between two dances, ten glasses, some crackers, I lost a piece of heart. I still want it back. I still feel that weakly repels. I wish I could remain incomplete, and nothing more to recover. This Sunday
sadness without chocolate I think of all this nonsense with me every moment of life: my job too feminine for a feminist, my love too warm for a love, my friend too talented to remain only that a friend and my marriage disintegrated and firmly bonded with the glue3; trips that I no longer undertakes; my apartment too small to be so filthy, and my loneliness too real to be transient.
I finished the manuscript, the novel's trip to the Andes. I've seen my Buenos Aires, and I glimpsed landscapes I could not know the trails, llamas and coca leaves.
What to do on Sunday? Stay in bed and wait for my new guest? They call me to go do yoga. That's all that I missed, frankly, sport. But why not. Take what comes. Go to what a. Blandness of that which can be lived without courage. 
If I had the courage, I myself subscribe to absent. I'd be there for anyone else. The best time to get my bearings, and make better choices. Breaking the habit, creating a new habit, and become a drug. Answering answering machine, no dial tone voice, the wrong address. Disappear. To reappear. Move away.
'd think I'd ever do in adulthood. As no arms, no chocolate, no mother, no white hen. And whose fault is it? Person, then grits his teeth and shut your mouth.
But even
. (I can not close my mouth) I wanted something hidden. At the bottom of the bed, at the corner of a cabinet, in a blind spot that would resurrect. Anyway. Chocolate and ideas.
I wanted
.
It was a shock when I realized what day it was yesterday. I spent the week not knowing what day it was. I had appointments, promises of sweet day, drinking aperitifs, friends to see. And then the erosion. Person on the line. Everything vanishes. All I 
And I'm back to thinking, without admitting, April 3, to all those who pass away in April always and always, at the beginning, the 1 and 3 that quickly kisses the 2 (who cares of 2), the bad joke that lasted 30 years and the anniversary of a dead woman who did has not celebrated enough, April 3. 
. 
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