Because I have no income yet, I’ve been window shopping like crazy. Today I caught myself comparing prices for used copies of a collection of Nin essays. Fifty cents, I thought, pretty good. Sure, there’s writing on the first three pages; still, it’s a seventeen cent savings from that other guy with the perfect copy who’s selling for sixty seven cents. Things have gone too far, clearly. In normal life, I don’t really believe it’s possible to consider different prices under a dollar. Basically, if you’re asking me to pay an amount I would not bother to pick up off the ground, it’s a good price.

I’m reading her earlier stuff now, where she gives a lot of serious consideration to how many life experiences she should allow herself to have. Silly Anais, no one gets to pick, I say, and then spend a lot of time congratulating myself on having had the exactly right amount of life experience. It’ll all end in divorce, poodles, and a house on the sea, you mark my words.

The plain fact is, one of you has stolen my Thurber and I need it back now. I need the racist, sexist humor, and I need the cartoons about seals. So please, if you stole it, give it back to me.

Alternately, and this is more likely, if I loaned it to you, aren’t you done by now? These stories, they’re not so long. What are you, retarded, that it takes you this long to read a book of Thurber? Besides, if you give it back I promise you can borrow this lovely Saki.

My Figure 8 CD got leprosy, making my heart skip. Like this: I am sadsadsadsadsadsadsa — It’s a mind bender. When is a CD not a CD? When it’s swiss cheese. And how did it happen, I wonder: biological warfare? Did it happen during the CD power coup? I can’t quite bear to throw it out yet. Maybe I can make it into a reusable coffee filter or something.

Well, holy holy holy. There’s a hole in my favorite shirt, too. I just noticed. CD, shirt — do I have termites of the life or something? Who’s making all these holes to peer through, and just what does she think she’s looking at?

Less than 24 hours of living alone and already the books are mad at me. Why should she get all the furniture, they’re asking themselves. They’ve taken over the leather couch, no doubt inspired by the example of the foreigners I brought in from the library–mannerless infidels who get drunk and lie around open-faced like they own the place. Now they’re starting to spread to the red couch too. Some of them are eating at the dining room table; a few are making friends on the nightstand. One or two pioneers are even examining what the kitchen has to offer.

Seeing the success of the books, the clothes started clamoring to leave the closet. They’re getting cozy with the couch books; they’re seeing how they like being worn by chairs instead of people; and some of the dirtier ones are having sex in a pile by the door.

Only the shoes are going about things in proper military fashion. They’ve organized; they’re dangerous. They wait until the lights go out and then form lines across doorways to trip me up in the middle of the night when I get out of bed to close the windows or to make sure the rest of the world is still there.

So far I can handle the attacks, but the throw pillows are starting to look hostile and I’m getting a little nervous. Still, everything should be fine. I just have to pray that the CDs keep squabbling and don’t unite under one rule; as soon as I hear the first notes of Abbey Road I’ll know it’s all over for me.