crow

Oh, Internet. I am not untouchable. I am pretty much the opposite of untouchable. I have applied for jobs and visiting positions and fellowships and awards, feeling the whole time like it was a massive waste of postage that I wasn't even paying for, and I drove across the mitten to see last-minute family and drove home feeling like a wrung-out washcloth, and I have been reading way too far into the little things: looking for subtexts in e-mails that aren't there, thinking that every angry blast of car horn is aimed at me.

There has been sideways rain, which knocked all my plants over and maimed a few of them, and there has been lots of prickly mornings. I got a parking ticket for parking within three feet of a driveway, even though I was actually 38 inches from the driveway*. And at night I drive home in the dark, listening to only this song, which is pretty much exactly how I feel these days--except for the parts about teacups, cherries, getting high in the bathtub, living in New York, and praying for Pavement to get back together.

Everything's normal, in other words. 

I guess the opposite would be touchable, except I don't want to be touched, either. I am a hedgehog in a cast. I want to sit on the couch while it's blustery and gray, with a few bottles of The Poet stout, watching movies I know by heart. If you want to come over, that's fine--bring cookies, or something, and I will throw you a blanket and lend you the dog if your feet get cold. Later we can listen to this mix, which I stumbled upon a few days ago, and we might even open the window a crack to hear the rain.

And hey! That's a raven on the bottle of The Poet. A raven is not quite a crow, but I think close enough. So I'm not untouchable. So I eat crow. Or rather, drink it.


*fuck yes I measured that shit