Satiety

He brought me a peeled Clementine fanned-out open on a small blue plate.

He Has His Limits

This is an actual piece of a conversation I had recently with My Fake Boyfriend about a woman he’s been seeing:

“She always rubs my neck and the back of my head. Do you know how much I hate that? I can’t deal with someone always touching the back of my head. How am I supposed to date someone who every time I see her wants me to do, like, isometric neck exercises?”

And Lo, We Remain Poor...For Now

Mza: I saw a recipe for absinthe cupcakes.
McBickle: Hm.
Mza: Hahaha.
McBickle: Do you have to make them in Williamsburg?
Mza: It kind of negates the whole idea of absinthe as something you drink when you're depressed verging on suicidal.
McBickle: Oh.
Mza: All of a sudden it's in CUPCAKES.
McBickle: I drank it at a party.
Mza: Yeah, it's legal now or whatev, but it should not be in cupcakes. That's going too far.
McBickle: Pretzels?
Mza: Hummus.
McBickle: I'M EATING HUMMUS RIGHT NOW.
Mza: SHUT UP.
McBickle: Actually babaganoush.
Mza: Does it have any liquor in it?
McBickle: But it's that same container so who the fuck knows. I fucking wish it did. Maker's hummus and I die happy.
Mza: Haha.
McBickle: You laugh.
Mza: Maker’s hummus. OMG.
McBickle: What? Who is joking in this conversation?
Mza: Just like a whole series of normal foods with liquor inserted...
McBickle: OKAY.
Mza: Vodka chips.
McBickle: This could make us very, very rich.
Mza: Bailey's soy milk. YUM.
McBickle: Only you'll have to relent on the cupcakes.
Mza: NO. They can have Frangelico though.
McBickle: Campari CupcakesTM.
Mza: Which is basically cake. Yes. OMG.
McBickle: See?
Mza: That would be GOOD.
McBickle: And this is how Mza and McBickle retired.
Mza: I'm going to make some Campari Cupcakes for the Ladyfriends’ thing.
McBickle: Um. OK?
Mza: Test run. If they go well...
McBickle: And if people puke...
Mza: Ha. I wouldn't put in that much. It'd be like a fruitcake.
McBickle: Cranberry Nut Compari Cake.
Mza: I just found a recipe for Campari Cake. But it involves something called "creme anglese." F that.

(To be continued...or, like, not.)

No, I Might Be Screwed

There is a mostly empty jar of Paul Newman’s tomato sauce on my kitchen counter. A papery label flies off its side.

I removed it from my fridge yesterday. And now I don’t know what to do with it. It occurs to me now I am waiting for a sign of some sort.

The dilemma of the jar is this: Glass must be recycled. Recycled containers must be clean. This container is not clean.

I am aware I can empty it. But I think it its contents are spoiled. I do not want to smell spoiled sauce. And I do not want to just drop it in the trash, because it must be recycled.

It will tell me what to do soon. I hope.

It's Over Now

There is screaming outside. Possibly playing, but suddenly too adult-voiced to be playing. A dog is barking. I ignore the screaming. This is Brooklyn: screaming happens.

I look out the window. There is a woman in a parka writhing on the ground. She is the one that is screaming. A brown dog in a blue jacket is barking and circling her. An older woman is circling the woman on the ground and the dog. The woman on the ground makes gestures to stand, quiets down, then screams again. The barking is ongoing. It’s mesmerizing, this scene, which has been going on quite a long time now, if only because the older woman does nothing. She does nothing to help the woman on the ground, who is clearly mentally challenged.

“Get the dog away from her, retard!” someone shouts from what I assume is my building, because I think I recognize the nasally voice as belonging to my downstairs’ neighbor, the one who screams at her kids a lot. Hm, it’s true, I realize. Getting the dog under control would be a positive first step.

Only later do I secretly enjoy the fact that my neighbor called the caretaker, the non-retarded one, “retard.”

And So It Is.

While I'm not one to be big into horoscopes, I read them occasionally with a critical eye, as I sometimes do poetry, literature, criticism, philosophy. So, this:

"Aries (Mar. 21-Apr. 19)
You are a squirrel. As such, you do not understand why your forest seems to be exploding. You are very concerned."

Well, fuck. Now I am. Grand.

Sleep--It's What I Do Not Get

"Choice--it's the disease of modernity."

This was said in a luscious episode of Radiolab.