Today’s soundtrack: Fortunately gone I wait for you
Today at 12:32am: Abandoning plans to go to a bar. I’m tired


Sunday morning and I’m facedown on the mattress like a corpse floating in the East River. The cell rings twice, the house phone three times. I remain unmoved, both physically and emotionally. I can’t think of a single person I’d rather speak to than sleep. Sure my life is sad, but at least I’m well-rested.

Lying there semi-conscious it occurs to me the call might be important since it’s the house phone that’s ringing; most everyone I know has my cell number but very few people have the house number. But the conversation in my head goes like this:

“Maybe you should...pick that up because...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

An hour later. The Police have this song called “Voices In My Head,” good track. Anyways now I hear voices in my hallway. Face down and mostly naked I suddenly feel vulnerable. Who the fuck is in my apartment? I hear three Japanese voices, one male, two female...ah, Emi’s photo shoot is today.

I stumble out of my room and introduce myself. The makeup girl and the hairstylist greet me with “konnichiwa” because I look very Japanese. (I’d even say extremely Japanese.) I mumble “ohayo ‘zaimasu” and take groggy steps to the kitchen to cut up my pineapple.

Next the clothing stylist shows up and finally the two models. One of the models went to Pratt (my alma mater) so we engage in some perfunctory conversation. Then I put a pot of coffee on, look at my wreck of an apartment and wonder about the choices I’ve made in life.

The makeup girl and the hair guy work on the models like mechanics fixing a car. Boxes and boxes of equipment. The models sit there like strange, elongated porcelain animals. One of the models was about six feet tall.

Once the shoot begins Emi cranks up her CDs, and let me tell you she listens to some weird fucking music. Like what? Like 2 Live Crew, for chrissakes. That guy Luther is so annoying, I hope he drives off a cliff.

I tried to get some writing done at the front of the apartment but it was impossible with all the noise.

The clothing stylist took my bedroom over. I walk in, there’s clothes all over the fucking place and she’s ironing a skirt furiously like a DJ working the decks.

The six-foot model chick, wearing nothing but pink underwear, is splayed out across my bed, completely unconscious. I suddenly wished my parents would pay me a surprise visit sometime in the next 30 seconds.

“Natalie’s just resting,” says the stylist. “She only got a couple hours of sleep last night.” I guess being tall is really exhausting.