My paycheck was small — much smaller than I anticipated. It was a payroll error, I’m sure. I started a new job. Mistakes always happen. But it kicked me into darkness. I’ve had a terrible day.
My students praised me this morning. You have to keep writing, they told me. You have such a powerful voice.
This one guy — a kid named Geoffrey [He spells it just like Chaucer. He insists on it. I love it.] — he asked me the greatest question. Why is there not a book of my writing? He wanted to give me money for my work. I was flying.
Another student, Lynn, has read all my work. She would give up my class if I stopped.
They admire me. I know it.
My mother warned me about my work. Airing my dirty laundry to the world will land me someplace awful. I should keep these words to myself. I should keep myself hidden like I used to do. At least all the sex, she cautioned, people don’t like all the sex. She’s embarrassed. Her friends are reading. She was right. I feel awful.
An old college friend, long ago lost, politely told me off. The message said I should do more drinking. Then I, and everyone else, will feel better.
A stranger wrote to tell me off. I am poisoning the world with my garbage — with my life. Her thesis: my life is garbage.
My paycheck was five hundred dollars. It was supposed to be fifteen hundred. That’s for September. I get paid at the end of the month. I’ll get the money eventually, of course, but that doesn’t help me now.
My rent is due. My car payment is late; so is my car insurance. The electricity will soon be cut off. They sent me a notice. If I don’t send them money by mid-October, they will terminate all service. The letter was on bright red paper. Awful.
My credit card companies call me until my cell phone dies. They do this daily. I charge it. They call me some more. They want money. I don’t have it. I tell them. They still call.
I should have stayed at Rutgers. I left because I wasn’t promoted. I disagreed with the administration’s call. It was the first time in my life I stood up for myself. I believed in myself, finally. This is my reward.
I called my mother crying. She offered to buy me food. I declined. She can’t afford it. She warned me about my writing. At least the sex. Don’t talk about your sex life so much. Somewhere, in some other dimension, Whitman is sighing. I know it.
I don’t know what to do. I’m still crying. I’m lost. This is my life. It’s awful.
I have a Bachelor’s degree, a Master’s, and four years of doctoral study. My resume is eight pages long.
It’s September. It’s 2009. I live in the United States of America. I’m starving. I don’t feel like writing. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to move at all. They broke me.
I just feel like signing off.
