A Profile
of my alternate universe self
Something about breezing into my light-filled kitchen, where a Funkadelic record plays gently in the background (probably Maggot Brain) and my plants are plenty, hanging, and thriving (probably framed nicely around some tapestries that I got at a swap meet or flea market or roadside curio shop in some remote area off Highway 56 in New Mexico). I have never forgotten to water any of these plants for weeks at a time, by the way.
Back to me: I refuse to fall asleep in my makeup (if I wear it, that is) so the sun beams off my well-hydrated cheeks, which seem to be retaining not even a single kettle chip’s worth of salt. I have one of those high powered blenders, and my fridge is full of whatever shit is supposed to be really good for you and not half-eaten takeout basmati rice and a molding container of white miso that you get for the one time you leave your comfort zone and make your own pad thai. You don’t even have to go through the process of convincing yourself that buying this expensive white miso is more economical than buying takeout, because you’re remarkably great with money. Or just rich, probably. Yeah, rich for some reason. I can’t sit and chat for as long as I’d hoped as I booked a last minute trip to New Orleans for the weekend and I have to be in a car to JFK no later than 1:15.
I still only get two haircuts a year. I still have a black cat and a calico cat.
