I’ve lost my notebook.
You know the one, the one with all my brilliant ideas in it.
OK. Well, they weren’t all brilliant. I remember the notation I made the day the white guy sat next to me on the bus, only to turn around and commiserate with four seats of black folk that “the white man, man, is just trying to hold us down.”
There was the time I wrote “I see nothing wrong with the word “moist”.
And there was the time I wrote, apparently after more gin and tonics than were required, “You’ve got it takes. Figure out what “it” is.”
There was also a grocery list.
And now? Here I sit, fresh out of canned ideas, left to the whims of a whirring mind and a blank screen.
I shall have to start another, of course. They come fast and furious, these ideas: thoughts on the proper way to get the cat to pay half the utilities; how much to tip when you get your elbows polished (at least 15%); ideas on what kind of person sits, legs out, on a city sidewalk.
There’s been an uptick in that lately, by the way.
You hear that? This is where I sigh.
So unless I hear from you, you may get 200-some words on the time I spent a whole movie de-pilling sweaters.