Stumble home, unpack, pile up laundry, try and find a fourth frickin’ quarter… turn the house upside down to try and find a damn quarter, nothing, fuck it, these kicking pants are clean enough, leave `um to air out.

Pack wraps, belt, shirt, towel, (boxing class tomorrow) ignore two coffee cups in the sink (at least somebody in this house is getting laid), grind coffee, stumble toward bed, find that my roommate left me a fucking birthday present, goddamn it. I hate this. I’m so bad at getting people stuff.

Find she’s left me a dragonfly pin, oh! Excellent (long story)! Open other pacakge to find —

Holy fucking christ.

Golden States, by Michael Cunningham. His first novel. I have literally read and re-read The Hours over a dozen times. I bring it on trips with me, as comfort reading. I read it before bed on bad days. It’s the book of the hours, of life, and I’m crazy about his other stuff too, but you can’t get Golden States because apparently he absolutely hates it, refuses to have it reprinted, and doesn’t even list it on his list of “books by the author” page.

Fuck, where did she get this?

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