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I struggle against my bonds but then settle into the whole thing Someone I just met doesn't like the heavy metal, you know, like Metallica. What's the softest metal? It's cesium. Metallica is cesium, if it's metal at all. In the past couple years three girls in the office have gotten married - they all changed their last names. Eyebrows - I'm not into the scary overplucked-eyebrow look, no. But just a little grooming - oh, just a little. What I'm freaking out about is that I will settle into some job, some office job where instead of thinking about the philosophy of language I will spend my days thinking about the philosophy of opening the mail, the philosophy of paperclips, and then I will come home, cook dinner for my husband whose name is now my name, and flop down on the couch to watch the TV until I go to bed. Pants uncomfortably tight around my turtle-like mid-section, sweaters with fun snowflakes on them in the winter, brooches. Norah Jones all day long at the lowest audible level, me humming along. No more running races, no more rock and roll concerts, no more sitting at bars until god-knows-when only to wake up four hours later, bleary-eyed, sleep loss - pah, I absorb it. BUT ANYWAY. I found scribbles on the collar of my pink flannel pajamas when I put them on tonight after my shower after the running group. Obviously someone was using a ballpoint pen in my bed. It wasn't me - it must have been that thief who was stealing my walnuts last summer and who still to this day messes up my living room and uses all my dishes. I want ice cream - ice cream and peanuts and chocolate sauce. Someone should go to the store for me.
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