my week in california

jetlag & living in a crummy west coast hotel while my body stays on eastern time. a car i can hardly fucking drive because we just don’t DO convertibles in NYC & i’ve never had an interest in sportscars, those puny little things surrounded by SUVs on the highway like one red ant in a swarm of african cockroaches. a weeklong headache and a schedule that would make even stephen covey shit his pants.

power outage at the hotel. up four dark, carpeted flights escorted by a uniformed workman with a flashlight. at least i wasn’t carrying my luggage that night, no, i was “lucky” enough to make it out of JFK a day before, on the last sunday flight before the blizzard hit.

aching for my beloved snow-blasted harlem streets while i sit in a dark room on the side of a suburban highway, use a cigarette lighter to find my way to the bathroom at midnight. the lights stay off until 2am. then i get up and do my email. gotta keep up, you know. gotta get my job done, electricity or no fucking electricity.

i’d rather be at home in the blizzard than in california. i’d rather eat nails than play dayjob drama games. i am nothing but a number on a spreadsheet. be quiet, girl. behave. get yourself into the grid, Excel cell A911, and shut the fuck up.

this is how it feels in Excel A911…