The first month in this apartment on the top floor of a three-storey walk-up on 99th Street in Edmonton, Alberta. The light in here is saving me.
Finals start this week. I'm trying to write a term paper on Mary Astell, a 17th-century woman who quietly revolutionized English rhetoric. I'm finding it hard to concentrate.
My desk is in front of a window through which I can see into the bakery across the street. One day I recognized my friend Clayton making croissants. I went to yoga for the first time. I discovered Iron and Wine, seven years late.
I'm drinking a lot. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette. The downstairs neighbor hauled in a piano three weeks ago. It took the whole day and they left the back door open. I thought Simpkin had escaped. Now he plays all the time and it's the best music you can imagine.
I'm going to have a Christmas tree. I got a haircut. It's not fair to say it, but every man I encounter disappoints me. It's a phase, I know. Who am I to lump people into a category called 'men'? I bought a humidifier. I bought a bed and a lot of new clothes.
My kitchen table is already so important. I have two chairs. People sit here and I cook for them. More meat than before. Every time I come home I greet Simpkin out loud and put my cash tips into a jar.
There are matches and books everywhere. Downstairs I pay a dollar-fifty in change for every load of laundry I wash. I dry things on a clothes rack in the kitchen. I make coffee without a scale.