August 25, 2010 - Breakfast

I'm bracing for more bad news.

In the middle of it all I feel like some sort of decrepit statue, due for its centenary depigeonshitting and shinejob. Ensconced two years ago in scaffolding put up during an arts push by the previous administration. Scoundrels. It all went tits and someone walked off with the copper they were supposed to use to reweld the joints. The city is suing the contractors. So everything just sits there.

Who would walk off with the copper they were supposed to use to reweld the joints? Only someone brazen.

I was supposed to go to see the camp counselor at das Egghaus, to talk about what to do when the bad news comes, but she canceled. The cancellation felt despairy. [Wife] rescheduled for August 30, the day the news is to arrive. My big project launches September 1. It's all gone swirl.

I want some professional to give me bracing instructions, blueprints for building the proper set of heavy walls between myself and my feelings. Cut the phone lines. Close down the perimeter. Cone of silence. I plan to ask: What so that you don't end up sitting on the floor for two weeks? Because I can't afford two more weeks of anguish and Pringles. In my personal profile the number one side-effect of infertility is spare-rib tips.

I need a startup. Something personal into which I might throw myself with abandon. A business with editorial aspects. A few editors working on it. I should likely buy a house instead. But a house is not making a thing. A house is having a thing. I would like process and risk. A spool of labor and confusion that might never be fully unwound. Something that can't be solved, that can be picked at endlessly, a sore on the inside of the mouth that won't heal. An assurance of noble failure and middle-class honesty. That is work, though. At home: [Wife] would like a house. We would both like a child.

I will never come back here to this moment. This one is over.

Weight: 311.5 lbs