"well, megan, i hate to have to tell you this, but we need you moved out by sunday." i wasn't shocked. it seemed like an inevitability. i told him i understood. pointlessly explained the details of my life that had slightly led up to this point. he said he was sorry, and good luck. i stood to go, and for whatever reason, simply started bawling. i sobbed some words to him about how i was very grateful, and i knew they were busy people, kind people, "for christ's sake, you let me come to your easter lunch. i'm sorry. goodbye." i walked down to the piece of shit trailer i so temporarily called home, to call my mother. the church was hiring a new staff member, which meant i got the boot. that and i hadn't been volunteering as much as they would have liked. my mother didn't answer. just as i was attempting to phone her again, knowing she usually doesn't answer because she can't find her phone, lauren step inside. to console me. i tell her the story.

somehow my confused sorrow turned into the two of us trying on my new sundresses, taking pictures of ourselves, and me making some short film upsidedown on the bed, while she brushed her teeth. we discussed how "diarrhea" might not be such a disgusting word, were it not for the meaning. but the word itself is almost pretty, and very fun to say.

so it's homeless again. and i don't even care. i'll be gone in a week. i don't even bother about my job anymore. for the most part i sit in the back room drinking either coffee or chocolate milk, smoking and reading david sedaris, while chaos reighns in the restaurant. lately his stories have kept me alive. or at least in better spirits. the portion of my job i do care about, in the sense that it is the only part of my job that impacts me, is the constant feeling of objectification. when a man slaps your ass to make some sort of masculine point i wish with all my little girl heart that i could vomit on demand. because i would puke in his face. this happened to me the other night, after i spent a half an hour telling this man i didn't want to give him my number, i didn't want to go out with him, i didn't want to have sex with him, and i am not "freaky" like he so unfoundedly assumed, after all i had done was give him coffee. somehow, through this fifteen second act, his judgment call was accurate, not to mention his super power brains could tell i have "a really nice personality." he proceeded to say, "i like the way your built. you look sporty. and that ass, you could make a black man so happy." call me crazy, but do people actually get persuaded by such statements? do people like that? because when someone walks up to me for the first time and informs me they think i have a nice booty, and would like for me to have sex with them, my initial instinct is to vomit. actually, i would probably just raise a confused eyebrow, which, my luck, would be completely misconstrued. what does "freaky" even mean.


upon leaving work i found a kitty. it wouldn't come to me when i called, but we meowed back and forth for about twenty minutes. i left it some bacon i stole from someone's plate in the backroom. i think they were still eating it, but obviously, there were more important kitties at hand.