I'm already late for coffee and still messing around reading about how to rip from vinyl to pc, dragging my feet. She’s been knocking on the door for six years, and I’ve been pretending not to be inside. But recently she’s sent me an email to apologize for blowing my head off in a dream. I email her back, thanks for being sorry . . .
She works here, no I don’t want my coffee for free, for the umpteenth time, why do you ask every time I come in? Everyone else takes it, she says. No. She’s agitated as usual, obsessed with the latest love affair as always, which has ended typically. I am rereading the horoscopes, bored and groggy. She’s complaining that she wants everyone he loves to die. Well that sounds like a good plan, I say—Do you know how the turntable works at World? She says, He’s adopting another kid and working it out even though his wife is a lesbian. Skip your noon yoga class for me, she says. (sigh) I want to go to the record store, but the Morrissey cd still isn’t out and I don’t need the Trespassers William or anything really, I say . . . She brightens and pulls out a little notebook in which she’s written a Morrissey quote about how people who say passionate things aren’t passionate people and how people who write the best things about the human race are loner weirdos who live in small squalid rooms. I laugh, Great finally I look good for having not published a novel.
Morrissey – You Have Killed Me (video link, he looks fabulous, love the suit, and the quick shots to women in the audience rearranging their tits in their dress-up clothes is amusing punctuation). This song gets better and better the more you listen to it. "You have killed me. You have killed me. [repeat]"
