Today’s soundtrack: [electric guitar licks from Samurai Fiction]
Today at 10:02pm: Eating leftovers and donated brie.


Leaving work early was the right thing to do; I arrived at the hardware store just as they were closing. I was the last one inside.

Four sheets of 80-grit and a couple 120s for good measure. Replacement filters for my paint mask. I love Chinese hardware stores ‘cause they don’t dick around: Here’s your shit, give me the money, here’s your change, the fuck out. They address me in Cantonese but I respond in English, effectively canceling my Asian coupon.

Back at the apartment I strip out of my suit and put on the type of clothes I’d wear to a tractor pull. I haul my soon-to-be-a kitchen cabinet up to the roof, put my mask on and start sanding. It’s quiet up on the roof. Up here I can’t see the mess that is the street.

Lam swings by and comes up on the roof. We shit-shoot for a little, then I go back to sanding and Lam breaks out his laptop. That’s what I love about writing, you can do it anywhere. Lam is disciplined enough that he actually does do it anywhere. The sun, bored with the both of us, dips low and heads steadily west.

Tomorrow I have to go back to that fucking office. For now all I can do is make this wood smooth, nice and smooth. I control this.