Gone With The

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The entire world was before her. A partner beside, a glowing family shoving her along with promises of cherry cookies and perhaps a golden dollar or two from the bookshelf treasure chest.

And yet for every sun-doppled lake walk there was a cranky little landlord (bald) who lied about an application fee. Or a calendar whose pages kept flipping and falling faster than she could pick them up. I moved here to write, which I have been, but not more than I worry about the tab. I moved here to do improv, which I have been, but not more than I consider what the steps to Belmont will be like caked in ice.

And people have been just ugh so ugh deceptive and tough. But others have been giving and fowarding of helpful emails. That's not an adjective, but, yeah. It seems the first group sucks up most of our brains. The second kind of evaporate like cotton candy in rain--just the sugar stuck to surface remaining. That's the important part anyway, but it takes long embittered speeches at the 24-hour cafe to scrub the filth of the uggos off this life. And meanwhile I blink away the cotton folk.

Put on your long curtain-made dress, Scarlett. Tomorrow is another day.