While JSlow lamented her hatred of packing, I lamented my writers’ block.
It’s the end of the year and I’m out of gas.
I can barely make it out of the garage, garage being the metaphor for my bed and my brain.
I called JSlow.
“Write about the fur!” she said. “And your birthday! The fur and your birthday!”
I have been obsessing about the Junya Watanabe faux fur coat that I posted on Halloween, my first Blank Stare Blink entry.
Here it is, in case you forgot:
As we all know, obsession turns to stalking, and I’ve been stalking and following this poor fur around the web waiting for it to go on sale and thus be mine.
I could not wait anymore.
I called the one store (Susan, on Sacramento Street) in San Francisco I knew had one, or did a few months ago. “Matt, it’s Paula.” Do you still have the Junya leopard fur?
“No, it sold.”
“Fuck,” I said not so under my breath.
“But wait,” he said, “We just got a slightly different version, let me see if it’s still here.”
I grabbed the next 1 California and got there as fast as I could.
There was no foreplay, no need to feel it, to touch it, to slowly take it off. I threw it on, paid, and skipped out the door and felt the instant flush and rush of that fucking fabulous fur.
Happy Birthday to me.
You see, I have a birthday coming up next week. A crappy one, an old one, a “demographic-segment-one-that-no-one-wants-to-market-to” one .
An irrelevant one.
There, I said it. It’s in print.
Most friends and people my age take a trip to the Bahamas or get plastic surgery or do something that disguises or takes them far away from who they are right now.
I’m putting on the most flamboyant, “look at me” fucking fur in the world and stomping around.
Yeah, Happy Birthday to me. I’m fucking 50.