It’s 1 a.m. going into Wednesday and I’m writing this in bed on a legal pad, in the dark, but I’ve got the blinds open and the light pollution on Brickell is bad/convenient enough to find the lines. It was raining for a little while, about an hour ago, while I was reading in bed with Mango and two lamps burning at once. Felt like any other night of my adolescence. A bittersweet kinda deja vu.

Even the lamps are two that I grew up with. Brought em over from my childhood bedroom when I moved in.

Earlier this evening I felt I’d embarrassed myself by sending a weirdly effusive buncha compliments via text to the person I’m kinda dating. Quickly followed it up with a text about being in a strangely hyper-appreciative mood and hoping it didn’t strike her as too heavy.

She said she didn’t mind it. Sent some emojis.

What I’m realizing might have caused that effusive text (apart from the fact that I’m reading Joyce Carol Oates’s memoir about widowhood and it really is making me spontaneously tell people I love them) is that today was my day off and I hadn’t realized until literally just an hour ago that I didn’t have a single conversation all day except for a brief exchange with my roommate at about 8 p.m. I talked to a barista in the morning while placing my order but that didn’t really count.

So yeah. Think I was just kinda lonely when I sent that.

Guess I’m writing this in bed in the dark, super late at night when I have to be up early, because I’m kinda worried about feeling this way for maybe the rest of my life—which is really dramatic and over-the-top, I know, but it does at least seem like something that’d plague me for a while to come.

But ahdunno. Probably I’m only worried cuz I’m alone and it’s late.

But think about it: will there always be friends to speak with? What if I’m always this poor, if the writing never takes off, and I can’t afford to go out with people—I can so easily envision this future where, if I wanna see friends, I’ll need to have them over to my little hovel where I’ll play music off a cassette player and serve stale bread with gazpacho and pruno out of a jar?

That’s a joke, kinda.

Anyway. Worries.

Everyone’s got em and these are just mine.

Time for bed.