Summer

Dear Stella,

I’ve got some funny habits. For example, before work, when I’m running around the house frantically gathering my shit (and it’s always a frantic endeavor no matter how many hours I’ve had to get ready), I say to myself, “Get it together, Hopkins, get it together.” And it helps! The shit comes together, I get out of the house, and maybe I’m just a bit less nervous.

My horoscope for the coming months tells me that though I will feel like I am in a prison, my “deprivation” could be the best thing for me if I use it to be productive.

How did my horoscope know that this is the first summer in a long time that I won’t be living in NYC? I’m already feeling it. I picture Manhattan, Brooklyn, and a little bit of Queens (sorry, Bronx and Staten Island, I don’t know you that well) bursting at the seams in their summery jubilation. Never mind that last summer, NYC kicked my butt—I’m a loyal friend, or a masochist.

It’s so quiet outside my window tonight. And this three story house, with its empty third floor, is beyond my spatial comprehension, much like a million dollars is beyond my mathematical comprehension—I don’t know what to do with the thought of it.

So, horoscope, I’ll take your word for it, because you I understand. Get it together, Hopkins, and do this thing. Turn this deprivation into a word-making, book-producing, check-list accomplishing miracle machine!

love,
Stephanie