I am wearing a feathery, blonde wig and drinking Bailey’s. I am writing a love note to Anson Williams. I’ve got hives, so I am staying in. I am staying in and thinking “Crabcakes.” Over and over, in my head. “Crabcakes. crabcakes, crabcakes.” I am not hungry. It is just the word I am obsessed with, in all of its clabbered pungency.
I am struck with a sudden urge to call an old friend I haven’t spoken to in years.I will wait, though, until I eventually lose my nerve.
If I did call him–it is 3 hours earlier in Arizona–I would tell him that I feel like I am living in a hotel. That this town doesn’t care about me. That I can’t pinpoint the exact day it happened, but somewhere along the way I stopped being young. I am not young but I am still waiting for things to begin.
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