“… no matter how often others breed, you’re not even semelparous—you’ve never been a breeder, and you’ll never be …”
She opened 137 emails and they all read the same:
One of our neighbor’s is missing her laundry, that was taken by mistake (sheets & ladies garments). Please check your laundry for these items and return them to the laundry room.
Yes, of course, how could she think otherwise. The seas are flooding us out of our homes. We flee with our belongings strapped to our already broken backs. What more can we give?
These are a few of the things she awoke with pasted on her tongue. No matter how often she passed the sandpaper organ across the roof of her mouth, no moisture would come, it was like brillo on bark in there.
Out there another moth flitted by her sight line—white popcorn ceiling and a Gainsboro gray corner. She worried the odds of a moth laying an egg sac in her open nocturnal maw. She wondered how many moths she may have swallowed over time in her apneic sleep.
She considered her day—it promised nothing, and was already a shade darker gray than her walls.
Her only desire now was a glass of water, or her first shot of vodka, to soothe the rasp of her throat. Vodka. Yes. It does a body good—the breakfast of champions, and all that.
I’m as deluded as the rest of them—it’s just not my year—so let’s get on with the day…
What I’m Reading:
“You’re a deadbeat with no ambition in life … and the only intimate relationship you can handle is with stuffed-crust pizza.”
— Elizabeth Pich / Fungirl