self-loathing

Yes, this could be the start of many a rant, maybe every rant: Sometimes I hate myself. Specifically, today, I hate myself for thinking about Ex-Lovers Who Won't Go Away. Whose fault is it that they won't go away? Okay, you got that one right. Next question: Why won't I let them go away? Don't answer that one; that answer is why I sometimes hate myself.
As a rule, communiques from my ex-lovers arrive with a synchronicity that defies rational explanation. After months of not hearing from them, they tend to reach out and touch someone (me, but possibly not me alone—I just happen to be the only one that I know about) on the same day, usually in the same hour. What's up with that? Today it was France and Thailand. In a couple months, it could be Kathmandhu. Actually, it's quite likely to be Kathmandhu, being as that's where both affairs started. And last night I dreamed of being in a hotel with one of them in Kathmandhu. That's why I hate myself today.
I think I'll displace this hatred and hate myself for something else, like smoking. Time to light up.
Today's reason for hating myself: I smoke.

the sunday papers

Yeah, I know, it's pathetic. But think about it: You move to New York City to be part of the artistic elite, to go to cafes and argue late into the night about intellectual verites, to hang out with cool people and evade your Midwestern, middle-class, middlebrow—mild—upbringing. Then you have kids, and you have to earn a living. Then you get old, and you have to mind your health. Then, then, then—a thousand things erode that intitial, fabulous self-image of being a young-thinker-about-town, a cutting-edge iconoclast, a Not What You Were Brought Up To Be.
But then, once a week, comes Sunday morning. A morning when, unlike in any other city in the world, you can walk out to any street corner and buy The New York Times. A Times with the Metro and City sections in it, a Times that makes you feel as if you're at the center of that world you dreamed of in the burbs. So you put on a pot of Zabar's coffee. You open up the newspaper. You light a cigarette. Yes. This is the life you signed on for, all those years ago, when you were actually young and actually cool. Fuck the PC police. You are at the center of the universe.
Reason not to quit smoking today: It's Sunday.

those damn gates

Have you ever heard of Christo, the world renowned conceptual artist? I'll just bet you have. Are you planning to come and visit the gates? Maybe you'd like to stay with me or at least stop by for brunch before your viewing of this spectacular installation? It's cold out, though, so maybe you'd better come back by my place afterwards, too, for a hot bowl of soup or to go to the bathroom or something. After all, my place is so conveniently located.
Well the gates are coming down shortly, and not a moment too soon, in my view. It's been a constant stream. Today four seldom-seen relatives are coming in to take a look. I can't even remember their wives' names. And yes, my friend is still here. I can't write more, because I have to go out and buy bagels and cream cheese and Bloody Mary mix—and what about lunch? And no, I don't want to go and see those gates again—I'm sick of being a native guide.
I better go out and get those bagels. And a pack of cigarettes.
Today's reason not to stop smoking: art, for chrissake.

maybe tomorrow

My friend has her shit all over my apartment, and it's making me nuts. It's not just her coat in the hall and her diary on the kitchen table, her presence on my computer and my telephone, the hours that she keeps and the fact that she has been here for three fucking weeks—it's not, in fact, her physcial shit that is bothering me, but her psychic shit. She has job problems, boyfriend problems and housing problems (which is why she's HERE all the TIME) and I know about all of them. I no sooner start to think about something or write something than I hear her voice, top volume, saying either "They are so fucked up!" or "I am so fucked!" or "What am I going to do?" Well, I'm done giving her advice. I know what I'm going to do, try to unkink my back and have a smoke.
So that's today's reason I can't stop smoking: My friend's shit all over the place.

i can't stop smoking today because

This morning I got a horrible e-mail from my mother. She tends to send me horrible e-mails when she can't sleep at night, and this one arrived at 3:36 a.m. So you see. Following is the text of the e-mail.
Well, I can't seem to copy the e-mail in here. That's another reason I can't stop smoking.
Anyway, the e-mail is all this blah blah about her travel arrangements and how her children don't care about her (a perennial) winding up with "I feel like an orphan again, so think before you answer."
I think I'll have a cigarette.
Today's reason I can't stop smoking: my mother's e-mail