I’m debating getting a Simone de Beauvoir novel, but my docket is over-ripe with books I need to read and ones that are partially incomplete.
I work in West Palm Beach. Never in my life did I dream of saying that. Nor did I dream I’d be working for a major culinary gadget purveyor IN West Palm Beach. Soon I’ll be making bluestone crab cakes with scallions for Hen Parties where affluent women drown their malaise in pitchers of Chenin Blanc sangria with peaches and Meyer lemons.
A new vibrator is coming in the mail tomorrow. It’s small and pink. I haven’t orgasmed since before I went to rehab. I eyed a pre-roll at the bodega up the road but I had to Google whether or not it would pop on my next UA (it most definitely would);
My roommate is going out of town this weekend. I got a frozen buffalo chicken pizza and might make one homemade just for shits and giggles.
Our new place is cozy. There’s a dark blue velvet couch David Lynch would absolutely adore and a large television, only, it won’t let me upload the Criterion Channel app which is causing me much distress. I did bust out my little radio and listen to The Kinks this afternoon, though.
I made another pot of coffee. I’m debating playing hooky so I don’t have to go to my home-group but I’m sure, ultimately, I will. The goddamned quota. Having to go to those only adds to my resentments which backfires. I keep meaning to buy Recovery Dharma.
There was a leak in the bathroom. Luckily, it collected in our toilet bowl brush tray, but nevertheless. I plan on cleaning the bathroom and doing a load of dishes again.
I might rent The Darjeeling Limited tonight and/or The Grand Budapest Hotel. I’m in a Wes Anderson mood.
I can’t wait to have the place to myself. Maybe I need to buy some new lingerie, something delicate, lace.
Nightingale 
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