Yesterday I went and had my toenails done. With a ten-minute massage added on, but no spa pedicure. I hate the spa pedicure.

My last pedicure had chipped, and the back of my heels were rough and cracked. I read People during the pedicure and it was as if I were dead, in the sense that time was suspended and I took in almost no impressions from the outside world. I paid almost no attention to the woman who was touching my feet, while she was touching my feet, except when she hurt me. I thanked her afterward. I tipped well.

Sometimes I want this feeling of nullification. I want to cease existing and have beautiful toenails.

Afterwards I went to Starbucks and read one of Waugh’s war stories while I drank a tall skim chai. I also wrote in my little journal about the other people there, and other things I hadn’t been writing in my real journal, because I have been lazy. I remembered that when I had driven to the supermarket the other day, everything had seemed very beautiful, including the tall pink plastic inflatable flippy thing outside the T-Mobile store. One crazy thing about the suburbs is that the physical spaces you drive by are pretty or ugly but never beautiful, and over this runs the songs you hear in the car, telling you about sex and longing and death and fun. Being beautiful.

Then our babysitter called to say she and the children were locked out of the house.