I found a small boy sleeping on the steps with a birthmark covering his face and wondered what kind of god would give a child that.

—Sarah Miles, The End Of The Affair

I’m in such a weird mood tonight.

Met a nice, loquacious young man at the bus stop. I saw him hobbling there, his mangled gait visible from the window of my house. His voice was loud and verging on uncontrolled, “My car is in the shop, I have to be there by seven, I can’t be late, I’m coach and manager and medical staff of the Generals, so they can’t go on the field without me.”

With innocent, childlike candor, he continued. I wondered if he was aware. If people took him less seriously. If I really understood who he was.

He got on the bus first, and in a confident tone, said to the bus driver, “Can I get priority seating?”. I considered sitting next to him and continuing our conversation, but by the time my transfer printed out, he already started with the person next to him, “I can’t be late. I’m coaching football…”.

So I cried on the bus because Misery Is A Butterfly, even though it wasn’t loud enough. Even though I put it on. I was doing it to myself, you see, because of this mood. Because I need it and want it and wondered how I’ve ever lived without it.

I’ve been reading Beautiful Losers. Can you tell?

I don’t plan on writing these things.

Then again, I don’t plan on feeling this way.