In the Dying Days of September

The month is almost corpse and I’m still keeping score. Nachos with cheese and ground beef: in, not as a trend but as a law of nature. Sasha Grey: in. Ayumi Hamasaki: in. Trampolines, pirate treasures, more breasts: in, always, no deliberation required. Vodka and asparagus as a combination: absolutely in—commit to it and don’t apologize. Leather jackets: in since leather was invented and still in now, no further discussion. Nibbling on nipples: one of the finer Tuesday-afternoon pursuits available to a man with nowhere to be. Fuckbuddies: in. Pudding: in. The Virtual Console: in. Shin Chan at seven in the morning before the day has made any demands: deeply, permanently in.

Skype as a substitute for actual physical presence: situationally, desperately, honestly in. The dream of the grandfather—I know exactly what that means and I stand by it. More pixels, more mushroom kingdoms, the smell of a neighborhood kiosk at nine in the morning before the city remembers it has complaints. All of it in.

Out: nuclear power, which has been out for decades and apparently requires repeating every September. The X-Factor. Dog trainers as a cultural institution. Apple fanatics who converted a purchase into a religion. Traffic jam tweets. Troll behavior. Tinnitus earned at concerts you didn’t even enjoy. The specific misery of watching your CV slide backward in real time. Autumn, which arrives like a debt collector who doesn’t knock. That low-grade fatigue that follows you room to room and refuses to become actual sleep. The knowledge that everything ends—factually correct, emotionally useless, out.

September exits on its own terms. Something smaller arrives next.