More Salvation Army

We're going to be here all day. Call me a pessimist, I don't care. I am sitting under the rack of men's dress coats, long tweedy looking skanks of thick fabric that has been sweated stiff over lifetimes of use. It smells like the past in here. I'm in a cave fort thing; it's one of those round racks, leaving a space in the middle you can sit Indian-style in and that's about it. It's a good place to be, except when they have those glass tops and you have to freeze like a rabbit when someone's moving through the hangers, looking down. Nobody has ever noticed me, though. And the top of this one is covered with plywood, anyway, not glass.

My knee hurts. I totally fucked it up at the club last night. On a Sunday night. It's the best night to go out, but the hardest to get away, too. I love the club on Sundays. Okay, this was only my second time, but I can tell. The people who go on Sundays are my kind of people. I have a good feeling that I might make some friends if I keep going and become a Sunday regular (which is not going to be easy to do, but I will figure out a way to get out of the house---probably church group, but we'll see). I get the feeling that there are real people who go there, real like in the way you could climb trees with your friends in 4th grade. I haven't had that kind of friend since elementary school. I could use one.

Oh, great. I can hear my mom calling me. Shhh, we are just going to be quiet for a minute; okay?