THINGS I’VE DREAMT OF THIS WEEK SINCE CHANGING TO A LOW CARB, LOW SUGAR DIET.

A giant inflatable Leonard Nimoy doing the finger-thing around every corner: on the way to work, to the grocery store, outside my apartment window.

A California Raisin – the one with the saxophone – dressed as a bologna sandwich on white. He is smiling. He plays “I Got A Woman.”

Erik Estrada wearing a pink apron and playing the role of my roommate/wife.

Ray Charles and Irvin “Magic” Johnson sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus, talking about communism.

Salmon Rushdie penning a Christmas newsletter. To whom, I’m not sure.

11/3/2005

Dear Landlords –

Please take care of the cockroach problem in my unit, #204. I have killed a lot of them and I would appreciate it if you could send over the exterminator.

Thank you,
[Redacted], #204

11/15/2005

Dear Landlords -

I write this note with a hand weary from battle, a heart sunk in frustration, and a mind that rings from the immense fear of these small, disease-ridden creatures that seem to have overrun my homestead with as much fervor and passion as I have ever known. I fear that if I don’t request help with these rampant beasts soon, then I shall fall victim to their terror.

Most gratefully,
[Redacted], #204

12/2/2005

Slumlords –

If you don’t get a g-d damn exterminator to take care of the roaches in my apartment AS SOON AS IS HUMANLY MOTHER F—ING POSSIBLE then I will call the health department of this godforsaken city and have you slapped with a citation as big as the cockroaches that live in my unit. Apparently my 700 dollars a month isn’t enough money for you to get you to take your thumbs out of your asses and do something about this infestation.

[Redacted], #204

Dear George,

Merry Christmas indeed. I do hope you are enjoying Connecticut, even as its friend, the Nor’Easter, pummels the East with its beautiful fury. As I’m sure you do, I have such fond memories of Christmas in New England. Of mother, wearing her best wig for all the family to fancy. Of father, enlightening my siblings and I with his symphonies of obscene phrases as he stands, ever so stoic, over the tree as he attempts to fit it ever so lovingly into its stand. Of my cousins and I coming home on Christmas Eve after indulging in opiates, only to find mother in her Christmas pajamas, nestled under the tree with a mistletoe betwixt her legs and a Brandy Alexander in her chilly hand. Of Christmas mornings where bright papers make a warming sea over the climate of cold bitterness and resentment while mother hands out her boxes of criticism to us children, large and small. Ah, the comforts of a home on a Christmas morning. What a shame such glorious beauty comes but once a year.

I sit now by a simmering pot of potpurri and inhale the scents of the season. I am thinking of you most fondly, dear friend, even though the pain of the syphilis you’ve given to me as your Christmas gift slowly kills me. May your memories of the season be as fond as my own. We simply must get together after the New Year should I survive the week.

Most Thoughtfully,
Henry David

I went to the Getty Center this weekend and I rode the tram. I like trams because they make me think of Disneyworld and the monorail. We walked around and admired the art and a funny looking garden that resembled a crop circle. When I was outside taking a picture of it, my dress blew straight up in the wind high above the city; man, that was really something. Then I ate Indian food and got a runny nose from all of the spice. There was a chart on the menu — 1 to 5 — indicating the hotness of the dishes. Paul got a Level 5 dish and the waitress had fear in her eyes for him. I got a Level One and my nose still ran. I tasted his and my esophagus felt like fire and brimstone. Man, that was something also. Then we played Hulk Smash and I landed on the edge of a fancy coffee table and bruised myself quite badly in a place no one sees.

My eye hurts. I think I have an eye infection. It’s itchy and red and it’s quite possible I might go blind. Blind out of one eye — wouldn’t that be something. At least it would be an excuse to wear an eye patch and talk like a pirate more than I already do. I’d probably adopt a swagger in order to keep it legitimate. Man my eye really itches. I think I may have gotten something in it while I was at Williams-Sonoma picking up a waffle iron to send to India. I like waffles. The word waffles has two Fs and not three. I know this because I am an excellent speller. If I can’t have my sight then at least I will have my spelling. And my swagger. Tonight I will practice my swagger if my eye still hurts or my sight diminishes completely…but that wouldn’t be good because I wouldn’t be able to tell if my swagger was acceptable if I am a Blind. Maybe it’s Cat Scratch Fever. And not the song…did you know that Cat Scratch Fever is a real thing? Well, it is. This morning a cat scratched my stomach while I was getting dressed. We call this cat Beast. We don’t know it’s real name but it might be Miriam…Beast fits much better than any other moniker because this cat yowls all night and sounds like Beelzebub. And it digs it’s claws in you. Some people don’t declaw their cats and I think this is dangerous. Maybe I have Cat Scratch Fever and my left eye is the first to go. By midnight I could lose some toes and by 3am my already questionable sanity. To lose one’s sanity is also to be called “crazy.” Crazy is spelled with a Y and not two Es. I learned that the hard way.