Automator

When I wake up I turn the coffee maker on. I put the grounds and water in the night before so all I have to do is turn on the button. My oatmeal is in a bowl already in case I am running late. My water bottle is in the fridge, again, if I am running late.

I have a list of clothes, outfits, planned for every day of the week. I've been known to stand in front of the closet for hours, hours, not knowing what to wear, hating everything. So every Sunday afternoon I sit down and think about what I'll be doing and where I will be going and who I will be seeing and write out what I wear. And I stick to this list with almost no deviations.

I wear my father's moccasins around the house, but never on the bed. The inside fur is matted and torn, pieces of it missing. They do not smell particularly good. They have not aged particularly well.

I will drink a glass of scotch, neat, every night at eight thirty. Never more and never less. It's gotten to the point where I don't even think about it anymore. It just happens.

The lamps in my home are all specifically placed because they are all hiding water stains. I left the windows open during a storm. I wanted to clean things out. I do not think things through.

I have stacks and stacks of books, but no bookshelf. I like the essence of insanity that stacks of books give off. You can look at something like that and know a lot about a person, and I guess I would rather keep my mouth shout and have those books say it for me.

I never can remember falling asleep. I never can remember closing my eyes. As far as I am aware, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and it is night. And then, just like that, it is day again.