There's a man who grows spearmint in the strip of his lawn between the sidewalk and the road. I pick a sprig whenever I walk by. It's been growing there every summer for years. A man brought me a sprig once like you bring someone flowers. That seems like so long ago. I was writing poetry then. I wrote a poem about the sprig of mint and the man who brought it to me. Anyway, I write fiction now.
I'm in the sort of whimsical summer mood that will lead me to buy wine and drink it on the front porch alone or with others. I'm nostalgic and warm. My grandmother and my cousins are almost off to Virginia and North Carolina. I'm so jealous, I could do something stupid like buy wine and drink it on the front porch alone or with others. I'll put candles in the empty bottles and me/we can drink the whole night through. I'm jealous because my grandmother and my cousins are going to a lake. I have this thing about bodies of water, excluding rivers. I have this thing about the people at this lake. I love them all.
My other forearm is itching for a tattoo. One day, other forearm, I will give you the rectangle or blood splatter (or both!) you so desire. One day.
I tried to dress like a space cowboy in the fall of 2008. I had suspenders and dumb boots and a pair of cap guns. The space part is that I had a cell phone that lit up in colors when someone was calling. Josh has a pair of "special" boots. They're special in the sense that he's never worn them. I'd like to wear them. I'd also like to wear suspenders again one day. I still use the light-up cell phone. Maybe a few pounds down the road I'll try again. Maybe in 2012.
I'm crocheting a pink striated square to cover our coffee table. I think it's going to look like a geometric cut of meat. Oh wait, oh yes. I'll trim the edges in a way that looks like dripping blood. I'm mostly a vegetarian. Until I'm not.