Called last night, depressed, bawling. Me conked out like a woodpile, incomprehensible. Sleeping. No, talk to me. What? I am awake. No. Who is this? Okay. Tomorrow. Thanks. Bye. She’s fine. Broke up with her boyfriend. Likes me. Very predictable about it. Don’t mind. Smart girl. Loud, loud. Always just a few pitches louder than necessary. Talk about sex? Always loud. Words for organs bouncing off walls, people looking, Goldie oblivious. Raucous laugh, too much, kind of embarrassing. Always. She’s fond of the low-cut top. Me too. But all the time?
Posted November 4, 1999