my ex-tragedy of a partner still loves me (even though there's no way in hell either one of us wants to get back together). my mom is baking bread. i'm drinking scotch in the afternoon sunlight of my apartment. i stink like the latte i accidentally dumped all over myself a few hours ago at the coffee house. i've made zero progress on the diss. i'm still, in someways, hiding from my best friend. who'll know i've been depressed and unhinged whether or not we have a real exchange. i haven't eaten more than some salad and crackers in days. i crave violence and contentedness at the exact same time. i'm staring uncontrollably at nothing. i hate the geographical location of my body. and i can't wait until i'm no longer occupying this space.