(My shit comes out sounding so solemn over here when, really, all I wanna do is be real but also funny even when I’m being totally crazy and getting into the feelings, but for whatever reason I like pouring my little brain out in this forum because it allows me to see what shit I should be focusing on in the longer, private-r writings—like, where are my preoccupations when I just thought-vom?—but also share, because why not.)
You’ll wake up in a foul mood, in a bed that’s not your own. At the bus stop, wearing leopard pants and giant platforms, you’ll scroll through Instagram. There’s the griddle you picked out at Macy’s a couple of years ago. It has pancakes on it. There’s a pan in which you’ve made food countless times on one of the other burners. You’re in leopard pants at a bus stop on a Sunday morning and there’s the heavy cast-iron cookware that no longer belongs to you, on a stove somewhere on Long Island. Things that belong to you can one day no longer be yours. You started over with no plates, a few bowls, three forks—not good enough for a dinner party, but you can’t have one anyway because you no longer have a table that unfolds for a feast. You found this liberating, knowing you’d one day have plates again, until it caught you while you were in leopard pants at a bus stop on a Sunday morning.
Update: Then your former local Williams-Sonoma calls to invite you to Customer Appreciation Day.