Minna B

From yesterday:

I was feeling down. That movie wasn’t very funny—it wasn’t making me feel any better.

I remembered I was supposed to have dinner and drinks with my family.

So I called him to come with me because I didn’t want to face them alone.

The questions.

“What’s up with school? Are you all paid up? Why can’t you do Spring quarter? When will you graduate?”

From a week ago:

I’m unenthusiastic. I hate waking up so early.

The cat meows to be fed—she has to get spayed but I can’t afford it right now.

I’m looking at plane tickets. The prices are going up and up.

I’m confused. Is he worth it?

I’ll never have enough money for him.

From a month ago:

Rent is coming up.

The restaurant is so slow. I’m so broke.

How can I afford this?

I’m late on school payment.

What can I sell?

I have nothing of value—monetarily.

I hate my job.

I don’t want to work because I hate this job.

I hate the people I work with—they don’t give a shit.

We used to be friends. We used to go out for drinks and talk about our lives.

“How are you? How’s school? How’s your dad doing?”

They stopped asking because they don’t care because I hate this job.

From a year ago:

I live across the street from him, but he feels so far away.

I work, I eat (sometimes), I sleep—alot.

I drink even more.

I smoke when I’m bored.

I work, I drink, I smoke, I sleep.

I wallow because I’m unhappy with my job.

I’m lonely because he’s gone.

I’m anxious because I’m standing still—going nowhere fast.

I work, I work, I work. Drink. Smoke. Sleep

I don’t remember actual events because it’s just a 

hazy cloud of smoke,

a blur of loneliness.

A big empty apartment full of

furniture, art, books, dressers, clothes,

so much clothes I’ll never wear because

it’s always the same black uniform.

I see black:

shirts, shoes, socks, pants, an apron that smells of week old food.

A black memory I can not really see.

From two years ago:

He and I live in the turquoise apartment.

Our humble little home.

I work, he works,

He leaves early in the morning. I sleep.

I get home from work late at night. He sleeps.

He works on his computer; always working,

trying to further his “career”.

I lay on the fur covered couch,

alone because he’s at the computer working,

his back facing me.

My black uniform is covered in white dog fur.

I go to bed because there’s nothing there for me—no one.

He comes to bed. I’m asleep.

He leaves early in the morning to go to work. I’m asleep.

The black uniform hangs waiting for the night.

So much clothes,

but I wear only the black.