April 19, 2008
My muse left, as I had more or less anticipated. No one can expect a thin, five-foot-nine, legs-to-high-hell blonde to stick around in a musty rented upstairs storefront apartment, patiently floating paper airplanes of ideas your way. She was corn-fed Midwest, not unlike myself, which is probably why she stayed around for as long as she did. But where as she showed up to work in a tailored yet practical slate grey BCBG pantsuit, I showed up in a wifebeater and Hello Kitty boyshorts, only slightly hungover, and bitching and whining about whatever needed bitched and whined about that week.