I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to do something in moments like this. That’s what I’ve been told, at least. My mentor says I should finish that painting—the one I was supposed to complete years ago. But it doesn’t move me. So I don’t move. And that’s the part that confuses me, because it’s not like I don’t want things. I want to write stories. I want to make books, movies, comics. I want to create, constantly. So where is the drive? Instead, I sit alone at 11:30 at night,

Game night with a distant college friend for her birthday. We each rode an hour to Chinatown—an hour for me, an hour for her. We thought a cat café would be fun, but $50 for 50 minutes for the both of us (she was paying for me) didn’t feel worth it. An all-day pass at an internet café sold us instead. We played on the PS5 until nine and made a new friend—long dreads, tan-brown skin, soft freckles. His smile was easy, teeth bright, a small goatee framing it. By the end of the

April 8th, 2026 Today, I spent the day with a friend, yapping on her bunk bed about cycling and cats. Her sister mentioned they wanted to adopt one, so I told them about a fancy Petco with cats on the first floor. We rode the A, with their cousin, all the way down to Union Square. After getting a bunch of helpful tips from the Petco coordinator, our bellies rumbling, we headed to Chinatown for Korean fried chicken. It was quiet on the street when we headed back home. People t