Musette went back to work. Right now she’s learning the meat station from her enemy while I am at home with my days blurring together because no events are taking place.
As you know, she has been pushing me to make something of myself and it makes me so ashamed listening to her cry into the phone about how bad her days are and how the second she gets to work she wants to leave.
I’m trying to do things to better our situation and make the most of this moment we have in New York like applying for internships at local publishing houses and submitting things to small presses but everyone wants stuff that hasn’t already been published on a blog or elsewhere and I don’t have a very good resume.
So I’ve resorted to trying to talk to people online with more literary clout than myself but it all feels fake and cheesy and slimy and gross.
Like, I messaged my favorite current writer, Sam Pink, wondering how he has been and asking if he’s working on anything at the moment. And he responded! But it’s tough keeping the conversation moving because I think we’re both sparse conversationalists.
I also messaged Lazy Fascist Press, Beach Sloth, and Steve Roggenbuck but none of them seemed to want to talk.
So I resort back to cleaning just to prove my worth in some way, vacuuming the apartment and receiving an Amazon Prime order that was scheduled to arrive between five and seven and ended up arriving at six. I was playing Destiny up until 4:45 but I got offline because I didn’t want to have to get up at a moment’s notice and abandon my guardian in the middle of a firefight.
I had told my teammates that the deliveries normally arrive at right around five, but this one didn’t end up coming until six. I was standing by my desk, looking out the window, watching and waiting when I finally saw the guy park across the street and start unloading the green bags from his white van.
He was black.
I rushed downstairs and intercepted him.
Were you watching for me? he asked.
I told him about how we had a little incident last time.
He couldn’t understand how someone could mistake the address.
I said, I understand that you have a lot of delivery drivers and that with so many people and such a tight time crunch, mistakes are bound to be made.
There are multiple companies who make the deliveries, he said. And some are better than others.
I’m guessing you work for the best, I said.
He just chuckled and took the plastic bags that line the green bags out of the green bags and handed them to me. Then he took the green bags back to his van. There were three total. I took the plastic bags upstairs and unloaded them. One was full of stuff that went in the freezer. One had stuff for the fridge. And one had stuff for the cupboards.
The bag that had things to go in the cupboard contained a loaf of bread sitting on top of a piece of cardboard for protection that looked perfect for painting on. It’s too bad I threw it away.
I returned to my game. It has really consumed me. The new expansion pack is coming out soon. The Taken King. That’s me. The false god, that’s Destiny for you, poisoning my soul with Thorn shots as I’m trying to get the upper hand on The Last Word, a gun with an info card stating, yours not mine.
These are the trials of Osiris. Every weekend. Lose the first round and return to the Reef to pick up another card. A flawless nine wins lets your guardian into the lighthouse. Clicking on characters to squeeze worthless coins out of them.
At least I finished Blood Meridian. So don’t be surprised if quotation marks return to my writing.
Now I’m reading My Struggle again.