I don't know why I chose this moment to write. I'm frantic and weird about something, doing that thing where I pace back and forth between two or three rooms of my small house, freezing in place in each room as if I have no idea how I got there. It's true. I've been randomly doing this for years, and it often precedes something big. What's getting me? Let it out. Don't proofread. My mom guilted me about something earlier today. A friend didn't write me back twice. My son is better than I deserve. It's blue outside, but a pretty kind of blue. It matches my living room walls somehow. There is fluffy snow on the ground. The anniversary of my father's death is coming up. I'm going to Mexico soon with little to no preparation. I haven't dreamed in a long time. I'm uninspired. It feels like it has always been winter. Writing this helps somehow.
There is a new plastic bag in the tree in my backyard.
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