Reply #111: Here's a conversation that took place today in my kitchen:

[Cats Against Frist]

Me: We have to drop off the rent check or they'll put us out.

Boyfriend: What day is it?

Me: I don't know.

Boyfriend: I think it's the seventh.

Me: How the hell did it get to be the seventh, already? I guess time flies when you're a poet and you don't give a fuck what day it is.

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I stare at the wall, for a living, post on message boards, stumble out once a week to teach an undergrad poetry class and otherwise have insomnia and write about tree-shaped dicks and salmon asses.