Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Every Tuesday night I dream that I am holding myself as a baby. I am a fussy baby. I do not want to be held. But I go on holding and hushing and soon I fall asleep in my own arms. And then I wake up.

On Wednesdays you can get free pie at Village Inn. I used to go there with friends, back when I had friends. We would go after band practice, back when I pretended to be a musician. I only drank the coffee, mug after mug. I gave the lemon creme pie to my mom. It made me happy. I was hungry.

Thursdays are now when we are supposed to look at old pictures of ourselves and share them with people we don't know online for all the world to see, if only the world cared at all. They don't. And we don't really, although we all want to be seen at least a little. We all had bad hair in 1st grade. But let's take a look anyway.

Fridays used to mean something.

Saturdays are either the laziest or the most productive day. Pajamas until noon versus the entire garage cleaned out and swept. Mine veer off the path and lead me to everything sinful for which I can repent in mere hours. That's the way to do it. But let's keep it our secret.

We've all felt the Sunday dread. Whether it's sitting in a pew feeling itchy or remembering that Monday lurks around the corner, ready to suffocate and crush you. But there's brunch. At least there's brunch.

And I didn't mention Monday only because I forgot. I started this with a dream on my mind and dreams don't happen on Monday. Monday has been whitewashed by Sunday. Monday is blank and hanging out by the copy machine.

Lean in a little bit closer and maybe you'll fall into tomorrow.

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