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[::sigh::]

This morning I reached for my big leather messenger bag, and noticed something slithering around it. Then the thing slipped inside. FUCK! I immediately did what any sane person would do – I grabbed the bag, turned it upside down, and shook vigorously, while a steady stream of profanity poured from my mouth. Keys, wallet, makeup, phone… and plop. A gigantic SILVERFISH dropped to the floor. I stepped on it: and then I just stood there for a bit, with the squishy body under my sandals, thinking about my life and the quality of it in general and how much longer I think I can stand living like a fucking piece of shit animal and a lot of other much darker things I probably shouldn’t blog about.

So, I’m at work now, and back in my apartment silverfish are eating my books and clothes and papers – the ones that aren’t yet in storage. But will be. Because, it’s become evident to me, that I cannot have books and clothes where I live, except in giant plastic bins that I seal and unseal every time I want clean underwear or a towel or a shirt or a scrap of paper. So, it’s all going into storage. Everything. No more hanging clothes in the closet, or even keeping them in my dresser. BTW, anyone in the NYC area need a nice dresser from Ikea? It’s not like I’ll be using it anymore….

And because silverfish can’t survive in dry environments that are either below 60 degrees or above 80 degrees, this means 1) buying dehumidifiers for every room and keeping them turned on full-blast, and 2) no air conditioning, at all. I will actually need to heat up my apartment to around 85-90 degrees and keep it there until the end of the year, when temps drop down to the 40′s at night and all the insects finally start to hibernate. And I’m going to have to start using boric acid along the walls, instead of lovely non-toxic cinnamon.

THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST SUMMER EVER.

.

Originally published at Livia Llewellyn.

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.


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