"You swallowed a Vicodin, sipped your double scotch,
and asked from where you sat at the kitchen counter,
what is the meaning of this life?
To numb the pain, my darling, and to master our cliches.
You told me Jewish people don't talk about the afterlife
because nothing is knowable.
I like this theory.
Pure formalism seems the death of an idea.
I didn't believe you were ignoring me until you said,
I'm not ignoring you.
I can't sit still.
I have no thoughts outside my own.
That's death to a writer.
Mike texts, wait till your book gets on the New York Times
Bestseller List.
I humor him, I know!
Exclamation point.
Actually, I'm getting paid to endorse products
in my new work.
I'm wearing a Roberto Cavalli gown right now.
Actually, I've been on strike for months
and haven't written a word.
The CIA sent me to Europe as an employee of a fake company
to penetrate Islamic networks.
Actually, I read that on the internet about the CIA,
though I know a girl who was training to be in the FBI.
She is prepared to kill someone.
I killed a spider yesterday.
Two of its legs stuck to the rolled up catalog
and went to the wall, but the body
went missing somewhere on the bathroom floor.
Friends send me links to breaking news for inspiration
like, 'Japanese girl's letter returned 15 years later
by a fish' and 'ah, that's the spot,
why scratching brings relief.'
Beloved's scratching suppresses painful memories.
Suddenly, I itch all over."