Maybe Mike Anthony Will Knock on My Door

This is the worst time of the year. Grey. Unrelenting. The sun sets at 4:25pm in the afternoon. My only reason to remain alive is to pay off my credit card bills. There was a moment there yesterday when I thought, Honestly? There’s not a single thing I really want to do.

It seems bleaker than usual this year. Dunno whether that’s from unceasing barrage of negative headlines or from the fact that I’m really fuckin’ old and my powers of attraction are on the wane.

I’m not talking about romantic attraction—I made my peace long ago with the fact that as an aging female well past her physical prime who has nothing in the way of material possessions, it was extremely unlikely that I would ever couple off again.

No, I’m talking about just being in a room and having people want to talk to me. They don’t. I’m old and therefore de facto irrelevant.

It dawns on me that I probably wouldn’t mind being irrelevant if I had a car I was comfortable driving at night and a more recent computer that was capable of playing Tropico 6 and The Sims 4 Discover University.

First World problems, in other words.

Ah, well.

In three months, crocus and snowdrops will poke their heads out of the frozen earth.

The sun won’t set till nearly 7pm!

Maybe Mike Anthony will knock on my door and hand me a check for one million dollars signed by John Beresford Tipton himself.

Or maybe I’ll finish my novel. It will be so brilliant and so amazing that that handful of terrestrial publishers who haven’t yet succumbed to the Publishing Extinction Event will enter into a fierce bidding war over it, and I will be rich, rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams of avarice!

Hey!

Anything can happen once it’s March.