It’s like an old lady who gets her pet hamster stuffed after his death and puts him on her nightstand. Nobody needs to see what she’s got in her bedroom, and if they did see it they probably would think it was hideous, but it gives her comfort to know he’s there.

This is roughly the way I felt about my long, crunchy, fried, horrible hair-ends. I almost invariably kept them swept back out of everyone’s sight, never wore my hair down except when very drunk, and basically might as well have been bald for all the good it ever did me. But I liked knowing it was there. It was a secret little thrill when I forced a brush through the angry massy web in the morning, a nice little tingle when I let the fluffy, frizzy, wretched mess down at night.

It’s like if whatever that gay decorator show is called came into the old lady’s home as an eightieth birthday present from her well-meaning great-nieces. They gave her a new thousand-dollar quilt, bright curtains, a Persian rug, and tossed Hamsty in the trash along with her tired old false teeth (which they replaced with solid gold dentures). The room looks great, it is airy and clean, also full of body and curl and shine and layers and glow as both hair and a room should be, but she misses her little hamster friend, hideous and smelly though he was. At night she looks around her fabulous and artistic room and sniffles a little.

As I sit typing this, my most fashionable and gorgeous co-worker comes striding in on her beautiful heron legs, effortlessly wearing some clingy thing from Anthropologie. “Your hair looks awesome!” she tells me, clearly sincere. I am wearing it down for the first time in many years, and it is floaty and curly and pretty and perfect. It does look awesome. “Thanks,” I say, and I give a sad little mental wave to Hamsty, lying sightless in the dumpster, before I bravely turn my back and walk forward into my attractive new world.

[Deep breath: thank you, Michele.]

I only started to notice these monkeys over the past couple of weeks. It’s weird that I’ve lived in this city for three years, encountering pigeons, wild parrots, hummingbirds and cats, but had never noticed the monkeys.

I like the little guys. But when they get in the house they’re a problem. They eat my fruit and brown sugar, and I think they’ve learned to use the toaster as well. It bothers me when others use my toaster. So I started laying down poison, nothing inhumane, just enough to put them to sleep but not enough that they crawl off and die in the walls. They are smart though, I mean they are practically us when you think about it, and they won’t touch the stuff. So I had to put it in the brown sugar. I built up a tolerance for myself first of course. Because I like that sugar. In my coffee. And so forth. My body has by now become quite adept at dealing with the unfortunate side effects of this rare and difficult-to-obtain deathless monkey poison.

Then a few days ago I was made aware of this world hunger issue so I made some cookies for everyone in the world, thus conquering the hunger problem. The recipe called for brown sugar. The world liked the cookies pretty well I think except no one but me had built up any tolerance for the poison in the sugar. So now here I am, alert and ordinary, while all around me the human race sleeps the unwakeable sleep of the deathless monkey poison. No one left to play chess with or to take me to the mall. No one to invent a new recipe for omelets. No one to play an indie rock show, make a Hollywood movie, write a new book or repair the elevators. No one to read this entry.

With the sleep of the people, though, the monkeys seem to have perked up a bit. I used up all the poison on the brown sugar world-hunger-ending cookies, so there’s nothing I can do. They pop in and out of the kitchen using the toaster all day long. They test-drive used Toyota Camrys. They tie up the phone lines. They fight over the sleeping Miss America’s crown. I just let them do their thing and resign myself to a life of cold English muffins and no decent conversation. I’ve almost gotten used to their filthy little habits–I’m sure I’d miss them if they suddenly weren’t around. Now if I can just get rid of this ant infestation, life will be pretty good…

My boss at Company X is teaching a university class this semester, because, I can only assume, he has decided that sleep is for the weak. Naturally it is my job to smooth his way through the bureaucratic nightmare, me having had so much experience working in the nightmare itself, which led to the following conversation:

“Stanford Tech Support.”

“Hi, I’m working for tempory faculty member X, he’s teaching a class this semester and he needs a login ID for your faculty site, so if–”

“Wait, too fast.”

“Ok, sorry. My boss is–”

“What’s his name?”

“Mar–”

“Spell it.”

[I spell it.]

[Irritated sigh.] “I need you to spell it slower.”

[I spell it slower.]

“Ok, hang on. I’m looking him up.” [Long silence, punctuated by frequent sighing.]

“So…do you sort of hate your job?”

[Angrily] “What?”

“You just seem kinda…angry.”

[Long pause. Irritated sigh.]

“Well, what if you tried–”

“Ok, he isn’t in the system. You need to give me your information again. And I need your name and phone number this time.”

“Ok, I–”

“Slowly.”

“Ok, I–”

“And then you’re gonna need someone with financial authority to set this up for you.”

“So you–”

“I can’t do it.”

“So why do you need my information, again?”

“I need to log the call.”

[Pause. Defeated.] “Ok. My name is–”

“Slowly.”