I don’t know what I am.
But I’m not that.
Isn’t that wonderful?

I cannot remember if we ordered Girl Scout cookies this year. It was now the middle of May. I only now remembered the cookies because of the seasonal craving that thrust itself up on me. I asked my husband about the order, as he was always the one whose friends had daughters, who sold them to us. Him.
He told me, however, that for the last two years, at least, he’d been ordering the cookies online.
“Well,” I asked. “Did you order them this year?”
He scratched his head and then asked me to pop in a video for him.
“What video?” I asked.
“Sweatin’ To the Oldies,” he said.
“Richard Simmons!” I cried. “I want Girl Scout Cookies and all you can think about is Richard Simmons?” I was surprised by my anger–my sudden ejaculation of words–over damn cookies.
But it had been so long. Since last year. And it seemed like a slap in the face that he should want to watch an exercise video when I wanted to devour a whole box of Samoas.

It is the only place to party. The walls gleam with new paint but the smell inside the room is cigarette smoke and boozy breaths–lots of people talking. The madness of it: I love it.

Eat Eve first. Begin with her because you are frightened of her. Eat her before she eats you. There’s hunger in her eyes.

Bought and paid. One sounds meaner than the other. Or they seem to be at odds: Bought thinks its better than Paid. Paid thinks bought is a pain. Paid wants a capital “P.” Same for “B.”
When will it end? Until one of them dies?

The clouds parted and the sun lay on me for about four minutes before clouds rolled in again. But the smell of flowers rolled in like waves, their fragrance lathing me anytime I was down of a bouquet, borne of lawn or tree. It is spring, dammit, and I was outside and I loved it.
And your son loved it too.

Did you know that I sold my plasma every week, when I was in college? No. You don’t. That’s how much you don’t give a fuck about me.

When you have a pretend conversation with someone, you have to do all of the talking.

There is nothing sad about looking at a blue pillow, or my gray sweatpants or my bare feet. I am just resting, waiting to feel rested actually, and there is no harm–in fact, there is something downright patriotic about scratching my exposed belly as I proclaim to myself on my more-than-halfway journey to feeling well-rested.

-You were drunk.

-I had only green tea.

-You can get drunk on green tea.