madam, in eden I'm adam

I guess I’ve been working on a base headache, just getting some colour down before I go for the real thing. Something about the light in the office is off, even after the man in the next desk climbed up and unscrewed a couple of the flickering bulbs overhead. This same man puts the smoked ends of his roll-ups in our shared bin, but I’m trying to be nice - he runs the clandestine tuck shop, after all, and I owe him 60p in back kit-kats.

I tried to send myself a note telling myself not to worry about this thing I’m worrying about, but it wouldn’t let me, so I just did the thing anyway. Or part of the thing. Research for the thing. Self-soothing by not being such a twat all the time. For instance, I went to the optician and paid £40 for someone to blow air into my eyes, then take pictures of the back of my eyeballs. When I stood up from the bank of machines I headbutted the most expensive-looking one trying to get my coat on. Everything is fine with my vision: the very nice man said I should get a lamp.

I wish I told better stories. Yesterday two of my mom’s brothers called her to say that in the barn on the farm one of them had inherited (a total surprise, from neighbours who had no one else) they’d found a Model T. Close-to-working order. In one picture they sent Neal’s sitting in it, while Bruce mimes pushing. In another, they’re both standing next to it.