Josh has been gone all week. I've been home alone. I've been industrious. I made pesto. I made a quiche. I wrote like a dying deer, just me and my black gumball eyes. My novel(la) has grown a plot. Characters have names. Cigarettes have smokers. Museums have sculptures. Today, the story got away from me. By the time I caught up, someone was dead.
I wrote some letters using an ink that probably looks like dried blood. If you requested a letter, you're getting one. If you didn't request a letter, you still might be getting one. I went crazy, folks. Drawings and everything. And I cannot draw.
Josh cut my hair last week. My female coworkers finally noticed today. I'm not complaining. All my female coworkers have bangs. Like on-the-brow bangs. I hear you can catch bangs from kissing. I want to blow on these bangs so they sway like grass skirts.
I woke up the other night with the fear that my car would not make it to work the next morning unless I got gas RIGHT THEN AT THAT VERY MOMENT. So I got up and got gas. It was like when you have to pee in the middle of the night. It seemed so necessary. I came home and went back to sleep and had a love dream. I've been holding Josh's pillow between my legs every night since he's been gone. We've been together seven years. People tell me that's a long time in "gay years." I want to pinch their cheeks and say, "You are just so precious and stupid."
The septennial is traditionally celebrated with gifts of wool or copper. We could use some copper mugs. I have enough wool. I once went to a sheep farm to learn how to shear a sheep and clean the fleece. The shears get so close to the sheep's skin, they sometimes make the sheep bleed. The sheep farm had a guard llama. The farmers went out one morning and found the trampled corpse of a coyote. There was blood on the llama's toes. The farmers cleaned the blood from the llama's toes and the llama chewed on whatever it had in its mouth. Grass, probably.