These are strange days, filled with oozing and grapefruits and tiny pieces of grass that fly into my eye and come out hours later in a leak of tears. Days of curling up on the couch under a blanket even though it’s sunny out and my favorite time of year. Days of spending five hours in my favorite tea shop and enjoying the waves of people coming and going. Days of wondering what’s worse: no answers or bad news. Days of getting scared of my own projects and ideas, cowering in the corner and hoping against hope that my dreams won’t hear me breathing over here; that the monstrous ideas that demand attention will just snort on by, leaving me sweaty, shaken, relieved, and lonely. Days of bluster and over-sensitivity, mean-spirited snarks, herbal speed-balls, and snugs with the wubs. I dream of puppies and babies and going through sacks of old, mildewed clothing. Then I have moments where I feel it all snap into clarity around me and I look around and wonder “Who the fuck’s life is this?” before realizing oh right, it’s mine with all its twitching frets and overly-cerebral monkey bars. Then I wipe the crusted verbal vomit from the corners of my mouth, and apologize demurely for the inconvenience. Back to prose tomorrow — promise.