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.