This morning, the light fills our little apartment in Queens in a way that makes me feel hopeful beyond any shred of reason. Nothing particularly special is scheduled for this day -- unless you are of the belief that the world is coming to an end. I think that's pretty special... and I don't even know which end of that boxing match I want to be on. Either, I float up to the sky and feel 'chosen' - a middle-child's dream come true- or I am left to suffer the ruins of our planet and forge a new world with the little that we have -which doesn't seem that different from what we're already doing.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
where's the vino? where's the bean?
where's the vino
I've given up drinking for a while.
(Waiting)
No, I am not pregnant. Naturally, this is the first questioned I am asked after I drop the on-the-wagon bomb.
No, not pregnant, just need a break from my favorite escape.
No, I have not given up coffee too. That would be cray-cray. (The "bean" in the title refers to the me-bean, not the coffee-bean.)
The vino has been released of her duties for the time being. The bean is laying low.
There is, however, a quarter-bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter, which on my (drinking) watch could never have survived the days between last Thursday --when it was opened and so cooly abandoned by the male guests we had that night-- and now. The quarter that remains is probably embittered. With its label directed ever-so-slightly out the window it appears to be looking away haughtily, defiantly: "Fine. You won't have me?
I've given up drinking for a while.
(Waiting)
No, I am not pregnant. Naturally, this is the first questioned I am asked after I drop the on-the-wagon bomb.
No, not pregnant, just need a break from my favorite escape.
No, I have not given up coffee too. That would be cray-cray. (The "bean" in the title refers to the me-bean, not the coffee-bean.)
The vino has been released of her duties for the time being. The bean is laying low.
There is, however, a quarter-bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter, which on my (drinking) watch could never have survived the days between last Thursday --when it was opened and so cooly abandoned by the male guests we had that night-- and now. The quarter that remains is probably embittered. With its label directed ever-so-slightly out the window it appears to be looking away haughtily, defiantly: "Fine. You won't have me?
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