That I want to call my mother and talk about this heat. I want to talk to her about the drought. I want to talk to her about how we are 12 inches below where we should be. That the earth feels scorched. That it rained today.
Why did I not learn to make her potato salad?
Why was she sitting like a statue on my couch last week?
I ironed a blue pin-striped oxford for my daughter's senior pictures today. I flashed to to an outfit Penny gave her that I ironed for her six-month photo 3 years ago. Six? Ten. Not seventeen years ago.
When listening critically to The Who this weekend, sober, in the daylight and turned to a medium volume, I realized, they suck.
Where has Radiohead been all my life?
I love Jemellia Hilfiger. She is one of the funniest, wittiest, sweetest people I have ever known. I want to draw her close to me like a rag doll. Then slap her away.
I love my body. I am 47 years old. It has looked better but I have never loved it more.
I am almost over my nose.