"Shut up, you guys! My baby is summoning his muse!"

Last night I went to the Cupcake Series reading at Lolita Bar featuring Samantha Hunt and Maxine Swann. I think two readers is an ideal number, because if there're three, I end up deciding that there's one I didn't like. Because I have to not like someone, you know. Two is just enough, and I went home jazzed to have heard them.

"I really, really need to start writing again," I told myself during the trainride home. It's been too long. It's been so long, in fact, that I don't have a single piece of fiction on my harddrive that has a "Last Modified" date of 2004. Whither 2004? I think I tried to find it at the bottom of a mai tai glass.

I went through some of my old notebooks last week and found things I didn't remember writing, though ostensibly I had--it was certainly my handwriting. I also found a number of undated journal entries, scattered throughout one 3-subject notebook, that read so crazy-like they had the patina of myth. "This is an infuriating, nervewracking week," one read. "B is back in town and I don't know what I should do about this."

First of all, what am I, 16? But more important, who is B? I know only one person whose name begins with B and I can't remember where B would've gone to or come back from and why this would've been a conundrum for me. I felt highly dissociative while I read the entry. I began to feel a little nervous that I'd turn the page and see, again in my handwriting, "Well, I've done it! I took care of B. The Newtown Creek tells no tales! Aye aye, Cap'n!"

But I'm getting away from the point. Anyhow, I enjoyed the reading, and afterward I thought, Yeah, I really gotta get back on that fiction tip. [Edit: Me talk pretty one day!]

And I came home, ate three pieces of pepperoni pizza, and passed out on the couch.