Abbi and I went to the grocery yesterday. I saw a male model. He was taller than God. I think he was holding lettuce. I was holding two bags of sugar. There's no good way to hold two bags of sugar. They were like giant, granulated balls, and I'll tell you this: the balls almost dropped. I wanted to shake the male model and say, "You don't belong here," but then I would've had to touch him and my hands would've melted into the fabric of his very nice shirt. I like my hands. The male model likes his very nice shirt. I kept my hands to myself even though my arms were popping like rattlesnakes.
I was buying sugar for desserts. Josh's mother was in town. I cooked until I felt gross, and then I cooked some more. The meat of roasted eggplant looks like octopus parts. The seeds are like little suckers. I made an eggplant quiche. I tried to make a fancy pastry crust for it, but I was impatient and didn't let the pastry crust chill. It collapsed into a sad, flat biscuit. Abbi said it still looked delicious, but when she left the kitchen, I threw that butter mess away. I made a quick oil crust instead. I'm a wizard at the oil crust.
All of this is to say I've been restless, and cooking forces me to slow the fuck down. I've been working on the gay ghost book and a longer short story about a demonic possession. I started a short short this week, but it's getting chubby too. When I cook, I put a lot of work into something and then I get to eat it THE VERY SAME DAY. I won't see the end of this gay ghost book for another six or seven months. And that's how it should be, of course.
I'm trying to be social again. I get like this around the full moon. Let's be friends. If we're already friends, let's be friends again. I made peanut butter fudge yesterday. I'm trying to limit my consumption, so please, come over and sit on my porch and eat this shit. I will watch you eat it while I drink a glass of tap water.