Maurice slept tucked up beside me last night again and this morning, when I began to wake, she tried to kiss me on the lips and then she bit my chin.
Yep. Good old Maurice.
I don't know, y'all. I'm struggling here. The usual Morning Angst is strong. I just don't give a shit about anything. My stomach hurts and my eyes ache and it's probably just the overpowering confederate jasmine but whatever it is, I don't like it.
I need to work in the garden. I need to go to the store. I need to take a walk. I need to go buy more chick starter food. I need to clean out the hen house.
I need to go to Paris or better yet- Greece and I need to have adventures and I need to throw away all of my clothes and I need to lose weight and I need to hide in the closet after I've thrown away clothes and I need to grow up (really- it's time) and I should probably get a job somewhere so that I won't have time to think about all of this bullshit inside of my head but I doubt the truck stop is hiring and I need to find my lotus flower, my happy place and I need to find a purpose in my life, and I need to stop acting and thinking like a fifteen-year old.
There's a new teen rooster in town and he keeps trying to crow and it's so funny and so sweet and Mick crows back, trying to show him how to do it and Elvis, Jr. next door answers them both, full of his own rooster voice, and the crickets are tuning up and I better just go do a few miles on my feet and go from there as I always do and have done for sixty-one years, almost sixty-two now, and that's all there is to it, to just go and do it and fuck Nike and maybe more gladiolas are blooming.
We shall see.