moody for days. the usual sadness. i don’t fight it. i watch lots of netflix. cupcake grease smeared across the bedsheets.

last night i had dinner with my friend  P who is majoring in philosophy at ucla, writing his thesis on zizek. “already? he’s big enough for a thesis?” i asked. “he’s the elvis of cultural theory.” a phrase i never understood—how can an intellectual be a “rock star.” a rock star is a rock star. a popular writer is a popular writer; ain’t never gonna be cool. however, I wouldn’t be surprised if z shared some of elvis’ sexual proclivities.

P was originally from new york, and as such, took great pride in his taste in restaurants on both coasts.  last night we dined at a little french bistro. i could not read the menu so i let P order. was willing choke down whatever, including a crisp bottle of sauvingon blanc. he ordered seafood. very delicate seafood which i ate in very small bites. its been months since we first hung out, yet i still cannot figure his angle—that is, why he invites me to dinner at all. our nights almost always end up in a fight. and too much alcohol. last night was one such glowing experience. as we switched to pinot grigio, he said of  a friend’s new poetry collection, which features short epiphanic poems, “its as if she licks a tree and has an epiphany.” i wondered—at first with horror then delight — if had i fallen prey to the same writerly crime of finding meaning in everything and nothing in my clit book. but there are worse things than a pussy epiphany. few things sweeter.