January 2nd, 2011 / 5:41 pm

Are Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez really brothers?

I woke up this morning and sat on a stool in the kitchen and watched a cat named Jim watch a squirrel. I did not know the squirrel’s name. It was on a fence post.

Last night, I went to a party. Joanna Ruocco was there. I started talking to her and told her I really liked her books and she said, “Publishing on a small press is like being the best at something that no one else has ever bothered to think of doing. In my head, I picture thousands of people doing really unique things that no one has ever done or will ever do again.” I laughed. When I stopped laughing I realized the person I was talking to wasn’t Joanna Ruocco. I didn’t know who it was. I didn’t see Joanna Ruocco the rest of the night.

I went in another room. No one was in this room except a very old and well-established poet. We looked at each other. He was  eating a cookie. I left the room. The very old and well-established poet was alone in the room with his cookie.

A lot of people were drinking whiskey. Someone gave me whiskey. I emptied this whiskey into an empty, clean bottle of nail polish. I did this in the middle of a crowded room, but no one seemed to notice. I thought maybe I would drink the whiskey later when I felt like drinking whiskey.

Later, a guy came up to me and asked me a question. After I answered his question he talked about cake and recommended I read Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye and then he talked about himself.

I got bored so I asked someone at the party if they wanted to go to a WNBA game. They said they did and went to get their coat. Twenty minutes passed. I asked someone if she knew where the person I was waiting for was. The person I asked said, “He left twenty minutes ago.”

When I was leaving I saw some guy named Charlie Sheen talking to some other guy named Emilio Estevez. I paused and watched for a little bit and then someone changed the channel.

As I rode my bike to the WNBA game I thought about a story I was writing called “The Fragment of my Decision to Lick a Suburb.” When I got to the game a player on Planet Mercury dribbled for a little bit and then passed to someone else. I sat on an orange seat and waited for something to happen. A player on the other team, The Dim Smooth Figures of Wonderment, got called for a hand infraction foul.

I thought about drinking the whiskey in the nail polish bottle, but instead I went home. When I got home there was an email from the illegitimate-seventeen-year-old child of someone famous:

I am tired of the noise coming out of everyone’s face. Lately, when I open my mouth I sometimes pause and think, “If I wasn’t me then I would be bored to listen to my own voice.” No one’s said anything good in years. I wish I could sew my ears into an enjoyable location of this planet. When people talk to me I feel my body glaze over after thirty seconds. I like when conversations are short and people point and say, “Give me.” I wish I was so significant that I didn’t have to listen to anyone ever again. I’ve thought, “Maybe I will shit a country guitar and some boots and then become a famous musician.” I don’t think anyone has ever truly understood what anyone else was saying because I don’t humans are capable of stating exactly what they feel. No one has ever said anything.

I gave Jim the whiskey and he puked a little.

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  1. Andy Linkner

      The world badly needs another book of your writings. Thanks Evelyn.

  2. Ani Smith

      so very much liked these last two you have written. i liked the ‘switcheroo’ you pulled on us about charlie and emilio, and of course the emails from the illegitimate-seventeen-year-old-of-etc-etc.

  3. Mark C


  4. letters journal

      Candace Parker is awesome.

  5. Kevin Sampsell

      I saw Joanna Ruocco at Powell’s last week. She stuck her hand into a book in the small press section and then she didn’t have a hand anymore. Her lips were the color of blood.

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