In the morning, I’m the first one to sit on the outhouse toilet. In the summer, this is fine. I get to see the sunrise and enjoy the cool of morning. In the winter it is bitingly cold. Moisture condenses on the seat and my ass sits exposed to the winter wind.
In truth, the girl in the coffee shop to whom I wrote the love poem was just a fill in. But the poetry came out just fine. Like using oil instead of butter. The cake was just as chocolate-y and moist but no cows were harmed in the making.
Weeding in the rain was cold. And wet. The mud soaked through my thin gloves and into the bones of my fingers.The dirt is heavy with water and my hands ache and feel clumsy with cold.
The last sex I had was a hook-up over tinder. It was the definition of mediocrity. Thin and covered and pimples and glitter it lasted an hour and then she drove me to my aunt’s house in silence.
Fans spinning, people spinning, salad spinning, laundry spinning. Earth spinning.
Bathtubs, glasses of wine, hot chocolate, fast internet loading Rocky Horror Picture Show, fuzzy sweatpants, soft skin.
Clean sheets are far more noticeable when they were, up to until I washed them, coated in dirt. Being in dirty sheets is a bit like being in sheets covered in crackers. It’s prickly and unpleasant on the skin but if you’re tired enough, you can sleep through it.
Driving into the night always seems too dangerous to be legal. but I need to get places at night so I do it anyway.
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