Get the Fuck Out of My House

The Avenue Q Song, "There is Life Outside Your Apartment" has rarely seemed more relevant.

"There is life outside your apartment! There's a pigeon squashed on the street!

Ew.

There's a girl passing by! -No I think that's a guy!- And a homeless man who only wants to buy something to eat!"

I sit down to write and bam: the chorus begins. "There is life outside! There is life outside! There is life outsiiiiiiiide."

I need to stop reading Joan Didion right now, and go outside. Joan Didion! I'm reading about how grief appears in waves. No one in my family has even died. I do not currently feel empathetic for Joan Didion. I feel like I don't care what Joan Didion's husband had in his pocket when he died. I also do not care why Joan Didion wants the New York Times to publish an obituary for her husband, but not the Los Angeles Times. Joan Didion: seriously..the minutia! Oh okay, I'm sorry, you're husband died, you can talk about minutia.