I am not your friend. I'm not your lover.

(I wrote this last week and forgot to post it. or, I had planned on posting it while on the ground in Vegas, but on account of my having to run the entire length of McCarren Airport, which included a security checkpoint and a tram, I didn't have time. I will also note that I very nearly died on this flight. Which is mostly true, but i'm prone to histrionics)

I am writing from a plane somewhere over the midwest.

On planes, I am weary. I take account of my life. If I had one last call, who would I choose? It would have been a boy, if you’d have asked me sooner. I now know I’d have been wasting my time.

If my plane’s going down, you’d better fucking answer. Voicemail before imminent death is the ultimate heartbreak. Remember this when you ignore my calls.

I’m afraid to breathe on airplanes. Even after a whole box of Airborne.

I take account of my life. But mostly, I take account of what I’ve left undone. And I don’t mean words unsaid or sunsets in Paris. It is the unmade bed, the pile of clothes.

If I should go down on a plane, there’d be dishes in my sink, dirty laundry.

I find sudden relief that any porn I [might]own is on my hard drive and will go down with me. That would be an awful last thing to worry about.

Hi mom.