I pour fresh coffee into an oversized black mug. It’s filling and then it’s spilling all over the counter, neatly covering the surface with vanilla-scented liquid, making two straight lines onto the hardwood floor, into shadows of dusk.
I think I’m really out of it, and I am. I feel queasy, often. I have acne.
This actually seems to be working. I can’t imagine myself having any stupid gender arguments ever again. There are many things happening simultaneously, not least of which is a violent increase in my body fat percentage, although I didn’t gain any weight. It’s also infinitely easier to maintain the resonance and timbre of my voice.
And I decided that I’m not really alone in this, I’m just needy. Note to self; be less needy.