I only actually write when the pendulum is high

I scored a carton of Parlaiments yesterday for free. Too bad I don't snort coke. I suppose beggars can't be choosers, though, but being a beggar doesn't make me a coke-head, either. At least they aren't menthol, right? Of course, some fiberglass might really break up all this congestion I'm suffering today. I'm trying to reprogram myself for work. No more alcohol. No more boys. No more dirty words and cigarettes. I don't know how much longer I can do this job. A couple months? I find myself feeling resentful that this woman just calls me from her lofty Park Ave. office suite and says, "oh, don't forget to reorganize that drawer in the kitchen." I find myself feeling resentful that I am paid specifically to live in a home where the drawers' contents are none of my business. If she's too goddam rich to enjoy this house then she doesn't deserve to fucking have it. And I hate splitting my life into two parts. Three parts. Maybe four. I have worked hard to become a complete person. A complete combination of all my different (multiple?) personalities, and now such is not permitted. I must do laundry today. I've already baked some muffins. I feel like I'm crashing off of a four-day high, but I swear I don't remember smoking crack. I am fed, clean, rested, only slightly unhealthy, and the weather is being a bitch. Hopefully she'll be off the rag next week when Maggie is here. Speaking of bitches on the rag, Vanessa has got to catch a clue. I've got an entire alter-universe on the corner of 1st Street and 2nd Ave., and I am really enjoying the evolution of the drama going on inside that bar. I don't want to leave NYC. I just want a home. Today's not the best of days.