092398- I tell my friend it's nonsense.

Broken battlehands in the morning and the cold of my feet- my hands- like Krispy Kreme filling ground into the interior furnishings of your floorboards. For sanity's sake she is I am waiting for the light to change but this is the longest red light in the history of bank robbing nightmares and there isn't an approaching car in sight. The gentlemen ladies all loiter by the liquor store while dust gathers thick on the dashboard of desire.

The cookies are burning while my keys are locked inside and I can see them taunting me through glass smeared in fingerprints and longing. Desperate cries of animal scratching fills the air while toxic coils of smoke billow from the kitchen to fill the house and I will never be able to clean the stench of stupid choices and hapless failures from the walls.

White walls; why is every apartment wall in my desolate American existence painted so stark and colorless?

But I am covered in the wet cat snarls of hair matted damp across my face and rat's nest blond strands colored blue and a pink-red fading to sun-bleached sofas when I forgot to pull the blinds at midday.