I most of the time feel like sarcasm and bitterness are uninvited in my life, and most of the time they are.  In this moment however I print their invitations with my imaginary printer that I am using to print everything I need to print, which includes transcript requests to The Lipscomb, because the Registrar doesn’t know how to use email, and also forms for The Grad Schools.  The Grad Schools know how to use email, and they know how to make online applications, which they have made and are lengthening according to the lists of their applicants and the suffixes on the names of their five highest-paid employees, whose salaries are lengthening according to the string of imaginary zeroes after the imaginary heading in the Book of My Life: Things I Have Accomplished, and Will Accomplish.  000000000.0000000000

If I can make Christmas presents happen by the 25th, make a grant application happen by the 17th, make four or five grad school applications happen by the 31st, and make rent and loans and utilities happen by the 1st of January, then I will be alive, inexplicably, sane, not wandering around the Broadway post office leaning in car windows asking for money to go to Burger King.  If I can make it alive and sane and un-homeless to January, maybe the 31st of January, when the last of the bright & shining applications and portfolios will be either thumbed or unthumbed, either in the inbox or the outbox, either liked or disliked, then, I can wear something with a hood, maybe something red and a note in my chest that someone wrote that says in so many words i love you, and walk around in a place that is far enough away.

It would be nice, in proportion to the difficulty, to take a trip.  I have the lists of places, lengthening in proportion to the lengthening list of places I have not traveled while reaching this age, twenty-four, twice twelve, twice twice six.  Even in my soul I am untraveling, and this is probably the most important of anything.  At this point I will not mail the invitations to sarcasm and bitterness, but will shred them, in my imaginary shredder that I am using to shred the invitations I printed for misery, wretchedness and poverty, which is even now spitting out in long strips the words “misery,” “wretchedness” and “poverty” sliced into unintelligible pieces along with a humming sound (like the happy librarian pushing the cart or the nipped & jaunty downtown-walker) and a crunching, as of snow in the morning, or cereal in the morning.

I guess things are ok.