Uninteresting I

I keep seeing dead mice in the yard where there are only leaves and I’ve been hanging out with people I don’t know very well. I’m amazed how sad people can make me feel, how happy. It occurred to me while I was listening to their lives speak, leaving watermarks on tables, that I probably seem like a most uninteresting person and it’s more likely that I not only seem uninteresting, I am uninteresting. This scares me more than public speaking. So does dressing in the morning, but that’s probably uninteresting.


I don’t know why I stopped writing poetry. I felt that in my work I had to show people something, because I wanted them to think I was interesting.
What do you do?
I knit pearl pink sweaters for my illegitimate daughter.
I make my own lingerie.
I photograph Ugandan orphans and with the proceeds from my photos I build designer iron clad bunk beds for them.
I started my own organic realty business.
Fuck me. I write? I try to write. I push keys and string together small symbols. I don’t do anything.
Oh, OK, well, OK.
Fuck me.


This is my fifth beer and I don’t even like beer. That’s not even true. This is my first, but I thought I’d try to make myself out to be an alcoholic. I’ve toyed with the idea of getting pregnant. Pass off the dilemma of personal worth to my someone else while gaining a purpose in life. I wonder if this is why we enjoy sex so much. And that makes me think, could I even find someone to impregnate me with a purpose?


That was rude, I apologize. I’ll try to keep myself to myself. It’s just that the cats keep killing mice and leaving them in the yard and I bury them and my friends, who are funny and good-looking, watch me and call the mice Barry. And when my friends leave I keep seeing the dead mice in the yard where there are only leaves.