13 Aug 98
Come back on Monday; I’ll be doing something different by then. Still writing, still the Subway Diary. Just a bit of something else. No more entries during the weekends, but you all connect from work, anyway. More narrative, more structure.
I celebrated my birthday by staying at work for 32 hours straight, sleeping two hours on the floor with an old sweater as a pillow. Then I smeared my entire body with Right Guard because I was worried about my wretched smell.
Not so bad, actually. I like sleeping on the floor. It’s good for the back.
Career! Today I am announced as Senior in my division.
Oh, and I might as well fess up. I’m not actually 24. I’m 16. Or 38. You decide.
Your fortune: Read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s essay, “The Crack-up,” for insight. Your lucky number: 718-488-9095, if in publishing, 35-41, of means, connected in publishing, need a houseboy.
Thanks for all the birthday emails. That’s the last houseboy request--the new Subway Diary won’t tolerate them. Most readers feel the same.