Ten Little Missions

Jennifer Lawrence looks at cameras like she’s waiting for them to stop being stupid, and I fall for that every time I see her in something. If Scarlett Johansson ever does Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on Broadway while I’m in New York, I’m going. Not because it’s theater. Because she’s in it.

The Christmas detritus is still in a bag in the closet. Throw it out or give it to Mrs. Reuscher upstairs if I ever feel charitable and she’s in a receiving mood. Probably not. The weather has been so gray and relentless that I’ve spent serious time imagining a weather cannon—just something to clear the clouds for one day. I know it’s stupid. I think about it anyway.

There are too many cats around here. I joke constantly about getting another one. This might actually happen. The off-hand masturbation research continues—maybe there’s something worth exploring there, maybe I’m inventing excuses for novelty. Both feel true. And then there’s the neighbor without curtains, and I’ve spent an embarrassing number of hours at the window like some kind of creep, which is exactly what I am.

Everyone’s a travel blogger now. Everyone’s a food blogger. It’s the same photos, the same narrative of discovery, nobody actually saying anything new. There’s a snack with some kind of pepperoni-meat flavor that keeps circling. I keep almost trying one. I won’t. The single time I tasted one years ago was enough.