I hate when someone says they know what you mean and then they go on and on about something you don't mean at all. Like they just felt like talking about whatever they were thinking and what you meant really means nothing to them. Or they spout sayings at you, like you're just going to soak that all up.
Everything from now on feels made up, do you know what I'm saying?
On the way home, I saw Jesus walking across the street and he was wearing pants. Khaki pants. He was carrying a cross too, but it didn't look heavy at all. He seemed to have no problem, just carrying it around with him everywhere, like it was a box of crayons or a newspaper just sitting lightly in his hands. And those pants. Fuck khaki pants, seriously. Khaki pants make everyone look miserable. At my first job, when I was sixteen, we had to wear khaki pants. Mine were baggy and always wrinkled up by the end of the day, like so wrinkly I'm surprised I wasn't fired. I worked as a cashier, ringing up groceries and clothes and televisions and whatever you put in front of me, but I was always just standing there, so I don't know what was happening that made them so wrinkly, but always by the end of the day I looked like I had been wadded up and sat on. Jesus looked pretty miserable too, as he carried that cross from street corner to corner, while some middle-aged black man skipped behind him shouting, "Jesus makes me feel like singing!"
This Jesus? Or Jesus Jesus? Was he talking about the same Jesus?
No person or person pretending to be a person makes me feel like singing today. I keep having this dream about this guy I met randomly last week, which is just so strange because I really like him a whole lot in the dream. We really get along. We listen to the same music and we laugh a lot. He cooked for me last night, can you believe that? I remember nothing about what he cooked, but it was awesome. He's so much fun, but not like crazy fun where he might take off his clothes in public or steal jewelry to prove how romantic he is; you have to meet him. In the dream, he makes me feel like singing or like doing something sweet, like singing to him or singing about him or singing him to sleep or singing in the shower, cracking the door open and hoping he's just dying out there, wishing he could see me singing naked in the shower. I like myself naked a lot better in dreams than in real life. He does too. It'll be awful if I see him again for real. I think he lives with his parents and he didn't even know who Don DeLillo was. Christ, that shouldn't be a prerequisite for me, should it? Anyway, if he knew who he was, he might hate him anyway. He might hate everything I love.
But in the dream he's pretty rad.
Anyway, I might hate everything I love too. That's where I'm at right now; looking at my things and thinking, "Who is this person living in this room?" I have six books just sitting there on the ground that I haven't even picked up, but I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to sit in my room so I could look at them and whisper to myself, "I love these books."
I think, quite possibly, I just want to get enough stuff so I can go through it all in two years and say, "Why did I save this?" That's what people say when they move, all types of people, and I want to be just like them. Because they go on to save things and save more things and throw some things away, and that's how people are. That's how I want to be. Just like a regular person.
Everyone in my building is always moving. I have never seen the same person twice. Okay, that is a lie, but really I have only seen a few people twice, everyone else only once or not at all.
There is a woman living in my building that likes to have sex at five o'clock in the morning. I have never seen her in real life, that I know of. She is extremely loud. Deafening. I am sure she is on drugs. I really thought she maybe was dying, until she started using real words in her screams. Five o'clock is both too early and too late to be screaming, "Fuck me!" out into the courtyard. Even when you're wearing earplugs and you've shut the window, anybody can hear "Fuck me!" echoing through the courtyard and into their ears.
I hate when people scream, "Jesus!" when they're having sex. I really do.
Five o'clock is too late and too early for almost everything... except when you're talking quietly and you don't have to work in the morning and your eyes are only halfway open and you're halfway looking at someone you love or at least think that you love. Five o'clock is too late and too early and too lonely to be awake by yourself.
Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.