Love Letter to Saturday

Maybe I’ll brush my teeth.

Maybe I’ll drink coffee in my dirty kitchen with no underwear on.

(The latter, but it is not a metaphor. It’s just been never since I’ve last washed the floors).

Next, gloat privately about my Scrabble win last night.

Feel overcome with love/gratitude for myself for playing qi and fi on a triple letter score but also, for once, I’m not nursing a hangover.

Bright tales. Bushy eye (brows).

Take a good lentil poop and have enough toilet paper

to cover my ass then pass

the cereal, consume the Internet, write a few lines of bad poetry

in my Moleskine-turned-diary.

It’s such a teenage/stupid thing to do, to keep a private, tedious account of things like “FEEBLER – 24 points, thank you very much”

And my bed is not made. And laying in it keeps it that way.