Mashed Potatoes On My Mind #broke

I'm in bed with a crappy cold. The thing slowing me down ancillary to the crappy cold is the mashed potatoes in my skull where sometimes there is brain matter. I used to think about death all the time. Used to: until about a month ago.

Now that I'm am older (about a month so) than I was in my meditations-on-death years, the conjecture, fear, and eager anticipation don't interest me. Money does. Je suis broke. Paying the rent so I am not made homeless interests me.

Sick and stumbling I dragged myself to the library a few hours ago, thinking I'm Not Your Negro, the 2016 film about James Baldwin, was on hold for me, but it wasn't. And because two librarians investigated, each loudly, and obliviously insensitive to my sensibilities, I kept repeating, "It's about James Baldwin," every time one of them repeated the title, I'm Not Your Negro. Because if you didn't know what the film was about, a decent person might wonder about me.

I have to start over and put the film on order at the NYPL. That's okay. The mashed potatoes that constitute 90 percent of my intellect cry out for butter and gravy. I cry out to passed over  James Baldwin, now with the Messengers, for help, mashing the potatoes into respect and income.