Wallet

"...he's a basement man..."

-- Stephen King, On Writing, about the true identity and locale of the Muse

--

My wallet is bursting at its leftmost seam. No, not from cash, but from receipts, business cards of places I want to frequent (and, you know, call manically), and age. If the wallet is really a metaphor for a person's means, well, the opposite is true, I suppose: Stuff tends to escape rather than coalesce and burst, and my metaphorical wallet is imploding. To mix the metaphor, let's say it's dying of hunger, or running on an almost-empty tank. To complicate the matter, let's add my car into the jumble, for it is my car, in fact, that has an almost-empty tank, and it is the dying wallet who has dropped the ball, if I may add another layer.

(Boo-hoo, I'm poor. Whatever. I do this for the art.)

At the end of the week, I've got a wasted wallet, an echoey gas tank and a set of dropped balls. Hooah...

--

Now with library memberships in Ohio and Kentucky, AND a newborn Netflix account, my life will soon be filled with movies. With a future like Memento and There Will Be Blood, catching up on flicks seems wonderful.