Auspicious

Yesterday was manic, wretched, me in high heels walking through wet snow to an interview with a friend of a friend, a thin and bent woman in her thirties with a mouth that looked as though it hadn't set right, the way noses can do. I couldn't get to the Brooklyn Public Library in time to hand over my writing samples and beg an interview. I shut myself up in my room with my feet in slippers and a pile of books, only coming out to debate the merits of children with Jojo when she came in for the night. Stayed up until three, unable to sleep. I should stop masturbating just before bedtime but when else am I in the mood?

Then this morning, printing the samples, preparing myself for uncomfortable dress interview clothes and the wet and cold day outside, I got an email from the BPL. They liked my cover letter; they wanted me to email them my writing samples. Done and done. An hour later and they email me again, wanting an interview. I lapse into cheers and recline on the bed for the rest of the day.

Stepping out to the grocery store, I run into a beat-street player, the sort of smooth that runs well over the level of woman it's meant for. He needs a writer, and likely hopes for a bedmate. He'll get one but never the other, if he knows what's best for him, or none at all.

I'm hoping hard for the job at the library. I've always loved libraries, books, words in general, and to generate loving words to describe this institution would bring me such joy. I try not to think of it but everything is so good, they must be permitting of my sense of humor because my cover letter was so tongue-in-cheek, they must like my samples or why would they ask for me, they must be willing to hire someone my age or else they would offer more money.

Still in the hole and broken. Writer's life. Make me tea and swing me, it's beautiful.