transference

I am on a selling frenzy. In the last week, I have sold my guitar amp, my two bikes, and my futon, and have promised away a prized Ikea Poang chair and a bass amp as gifts. A woman came over from Bed-Stuy tonight to buy the futon. Her email address was "littlelocks" and her name showed up as "Peacefully-Blessed," but she signed her emails "Patricia." Two years ago when I was tearfully looking for apartments, I almost moved in with a woman, who, like Peacefully-Blessed, preferred descriptive names, and signed her emails Zaftig Beauty. I loved her. I loved them. Peacefully-Blessed showed up at my house two hours late with a Pacific Islander man upon whom I immediately bestowed a cursed North Face bubble goose that has been stowed under the futon for a year - I've tried to give it away twice, to no avail. Dari the PI man took it. I helped them bring the futon down to the front door and then I said BYEEEEEE! and fled upstairs with the cash before they could decide that the station wagon they brought was too small for the futon. (They got it home. I just got a text from Peacefully-Blessed that reads "We just got it up to my apt. Thank you paz y amor.")

Now there is a hole where the futon was and the living room echoes. I am on a premature selling frenzy, because I still have a month left in New York and now I have nowhere to sit when I go on my Lost-watching orgies. Now I have to sit on the floor to watch Matthew Fox sucking Evangeline Lilly's face, and the floor is hard and covered and dog hair and little pieces of raw chicken. I just started feeding Boo a raw diet, not because of weird ideas about dog nutrition but because I don't want to buy a 20-pound bag of dog food and have 10-pounds left at the end of the month so I'd rather just buy 5-pound bags of chicken thighs once a week. The math doesn't work out. Also, a raw diet means Boo lifts big pieces of raw chicken from his bowl and then sprays chicken innards everywhere as he chaws it down. So that in turn means that when I procrastinate and resist reading the four months of Tart Law I haven't read, I must sit amongst pieces of chicken and piles of hair and half-chewed rawhide "Retriever" rolls and a pile of homeless curtains to watch television.

I have also run out of things to sell. I am hunting around the house looking for other people's possessions to sell. Stephanie is in Vancouver for the weekend for a conference called "Trans SomaTechnics." It sounds like DJ equipment but it's actually about homos. Stepho said she was intimidated because she kept getting emails from a person who identifies as a "femme gimp" and she worries she won't be able to charm the crowd by being the most outré cool person there, but I have faith in the winningness of her wild mullet and buttonless button-up shirts. Anyway, I'm lonely and I have a take-home final to do in Art Law, the oxymoronic jumbo shrimp of the law school curriculum, which I couldn't care less about, which I forestall by selling things I need to people I don't know. Brusque Bruce from Sheepshead Bay brought a cop friend named Danny and absconded with my beloved amplifier yesterday night with a firm handshake and a pile of twenties; sweet Shawn from East New York with barbered dreadlocks and impeccable clothes bought my zippy gray bike for his lady friend Kiora this morning. How much is my dusty milkcrate filled with salvaged softballs and baseballs worth? Half a jug of Dr. Bronner's soap? "Civilization and Its Discontents" or "The Second Sex"? My Goodwin Proctor deck of cards? I have a pair of needle-nosed pliers that don't close properly...yours for $15. Baby, buy buy buy!

It's finals! It's finally finals! It's finally the final finals! I'm off my rocker! This season I have a new shirt to replace the Super Mario Bros. shirt that I usually spend the week in - Stepho bought me a giant kelly green shirt/pup tent at ComicCon that has a picture of a little frog in red pants on the front. He's saying, "I'm wearing little pants to cover my genitals!" The shirt is a benefit for the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, which we learned about in Art Law, or at least we heard about, or at least I just vaguely recall those syllables emerging from the muckety muck of lecture one day in January. WTFOMG. I expect in four or five days time to be complete free of degree requirements, God Bless America, Peacefully-Blessed, Zaftig blessings, I will see you all in a few.