scially inpt

So... cially in-ept. Is it an unfair charge against me? What happens if today, for example, I have yet to see another person (I know, I've seen the grocers and their shoppers, the families of six and the couples in bushwick with a guitar and a dog), and I like it, I know not their names, I doubt to recognize a one of them again, we spend nothing addressing one another. I'd like very much to exist solitary in this apartment. I shouldn't make commitments: this is when I am rightly accused as fickle. Acting on whims. My whims today have me dress to leave for a party, then call and send off an abstract apology, the receiver may be offended, or angry, or anything, so I'm off the phone full of guilt feeling, at why can't I just go despite it. Also I'm proud to want to stay inside my house, to not have to put on a farce of friendliness, to impress those I know already and don't care to cavort with on this night, those I see almost daily for jobs I don't do but to save up money to just move to the different Country. To not drink, to not stuff myself full with pork though delicious it might be. There are beets  in my future, and spelt berries, and carrot juice. Romance running me up and down like the uterus of hysteria. I like to just look out the window and listen to thunder. I'm sorry for using up one of your rsvp s. 

music for mine masts

I can't even spend the seconds writing in my own personal journal anymore! It's as though those days are dead n gone now, that all that's left for me is a carpetless existence; I am sitting in spandex shorts, racing stripes along outer thigh, a black silk slip ("HAPPY VALENTINE'S" you'll hear me mutter sexily as I rub hands up and down over my own silhouette, insinuating that which already is but obviously isn't), wool socks pulled up to knees and a sweatshirt I decorated with a crosssection of a volcano, a magma chamber glorified. And the old blanket draped over, strong and poortasting coffee made from a french press but purchased begrudgingly from dunkin donuts. Colleen ringing in years, the devil's backbone wilting subtly in front. Trying to keep it from the cat, trying to keep all matching pairs of shoes together, wondering why I've pocketed myself in a bikeless existence, for now only is there a blanket of snow outside. Hasn't melted evenafter a day, which impresses me. And only hours left until the day is over; I agree it's as though I have two days with sleep in the middle for I awake at 12 noon and then to the restaurant as we all call ours individually at 5 then a night to begin at 12 midnight. And sleep once more from 5 to 8 am, and again & again. Who has time for anything but blasting oneself out of one's gourd, carelessly cavorting, straddling barstools and prancing, attempting to maintain a sense of balance. When the eyes dry up to little sands and the head spins just slightly, aware of a coming dawn not unlike yesterday's. Luckily everyone I know swims the same, though we're just floating along in a boat built by us but not actively. We all spin up the sails lazily and haze around in a sun, wet on occasion by the spume from the forward bow, tangled just for seconds in the cords and all the shiprelated words which I can't bring to mind.