fat

I'm reading Demons in the Spring by Joe Meno and the feelings I have are kind of sweet, like I want to eat ice cream and paint my toe nails. I even took a pink flyer from the elderly Asian man who always stands outside FIT with pink flyers, ignored. It was for Jess's Nails. I wondered if he has to get rid of the whole stack before he can go home. I wondered if he gets paid per flyer. I wonder what he's thinking and if he has children and what they are doing and if one of them goes to FIT, supported by pink flyers, and probably not but why not and what that would feel like, to be the man, or the people who run across the street to avoid flyers. Surely it is out of the way to do that. They are so repulsed. Are the papers diseased? They hate baggage. They hate inconvenience. I'm going to take flyers from everyone, always, and not throw them away until I am a little dot, blinked out.

It is raining but the sky doesn't seem to be agreeing. If I went outside--which I should because the clock says I am no longer being paid to sit here--then the ground would be bright and wet and I would feel like a mermaid reflecting on rocks. Pleasant and runny.

I am the only one not working because the other two consultants are tutoring students and my student left, because we had finished our session and were just talking about Woody Allen, and no one else is here.
Yecca just said, "Why would you want to start a sentence with 'But'?"
Student mumbles something. Sort of scribbles.
Yecca says, "But do what you want, if you're thinking about it. I mean, rules are just rules."

Patrick is saying, "Journal entries aren't always a story. A story someone else would read."
Student says, "I want to make it a story."
It sounds like they are making stories.

I don't remember why I felt motivated to write this. Did it have something to do with Joe Meno? Was it the coffee? I underlined these things in Meno's story "An Apple Could Make You Laugh": "the desperate waistbands of our unhappy clothes," "your shoulders would be as white and stunning as antelopes made of snow," "a phone from a dream I once had about you where we were both made of soap," "you borrow a pen because your pen is haunted," "I ride my bicycle into a tree."

Today Patrick brought me Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I'm getting fat on reading and need to do more writing. I've been working out this thing in my head that will probably be longer, like a novella or something, but considering my longest stories are like 8 pages, then I'm guessing this would be about 50.