not fruitful but polite
For weeks, the carbon monoxide detector in the hallway beeped incessantly until I found out it was coming from the couple's apartment next door. I asked her if she could change the battery. She did. Her name is Gul, but she told me I could call her Rose.
I've been worrying and doodling in my journal. Thinking about air-dry clay, and how maybe I could make tiny trinket bowls for my rings.
I made some postcards spurred on by the doodles in my journal.
Last night, I pulled my single-sized mattress from Ikea out of my closet and dragged it into the living room. The noise up on the roof, above my bedroom, is getting worse. The landlord keeps telling me they're waiting for parts.
I'm not sleeping enough. Swirly thoughts on repeat. Do I start a Substack? Do I start a Buttondown? Do I switch my blog over to Patreon? Do I start a YT channel?
Mapping out my innards while listening to Courtney.
I peruse Are.na and stumble upon nude photos of gorgeous women. The bush is in.
I waste so much time. Thinking > doing.
I applied to: a dog shelter, a dental office, and a vet's office today. I received one reply to the cold emails I sent yesterday. It wasn't fruitful. But polite.