A few nights ago, I bought a pack of cigarettes. Except there was a two for one deal, and you know how much I'm trying to save money. Then, at 1 or 2 last night - just before the rundown market on 20th and Valencia shuttered its doors - I was craving cigarettes, but hadn't brought any with me, so I bought a pack. That makes three. Unconsciously, I've stocked up for the long month ahead. Cigarettes, coffee, the gym: these, my crutches, for advancing through a month of solitary confinement in the torrid realm of my imagination.
And yesterday I went to meet a new shrink. My first shrink worked at the on-campus Health center. Our meetings were weekly, life-affirming, and gratis. He was a quiet-faced man with non-judgmental eyes and glasses. This new one is a woman, age uncertain, beauty profound. Will writing the novel make me less crazy, or more? Will I drown in disappointment and sorrow, ascend to glory, muddle through?
I need eccentric characters, is what I need.
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