It's tax time. Here's something I scrawled on the back of a receipt, dated 10/19/10:
Riding up with a young girl in dank elevator at the art school where I teach.
She's unaffected and bottle-blonde pissy, grip-wrinkling an expensive sheet of bristol paper.
Chomping chips comatose.
Strapless cotton print dress -- one nude shoulder leans back onto the brushed chrome - cowboy boots crossed at the ankle, key dangling on a lanyard, angling
So dreadfully bored
in the good 50 seconds we have left together.