last thursday, somewhere between my leaving for and returning from the market, the awning outside my building disappeared. this apparently symbolized the advent of new management (verified by an ominous slipping of a "hi, we're the new management" note under the door in the dead of night). it was also apparently the only thing that enabled me to remember where i live. in its absence, i repeatedly wander past my own home, bopping along to pete yorn (am a little summer of 2001 lately). it's a spooky alzheimer's-esque sensation: to be knowing exactly where you're going, what you're doing, where you live- then look up and wonder how the hell did i get here. makes me feel so much stupider than i'm pretty sure i could possibly be. but am speedily cultivating a bit. pause briefly, fan myself with two dainty flutters of the wrist, pivot one green shoe elegantly in front of the other, flick the hair from my eyes, and look mildly, yet chicly, annoyed that my building has misplaced itself. you've just gotta rock the self-awareness.