11:58 PM

I can't hold anyone's hand for too long. I don't know what is wrong with me. The weight feels heavy against my fingers, and I slip away. I guess when I really get down to it, I don't want to be comfortable.

8:52 PM

The final straw was imprisoning Arnold
in the attic crawlspace, Deedee. Flaking paint shards peeled skin shavings
off my knees as I climbed the ladder
thirty feet while Greta kept the bottom steady,
keeping careful watch for cops or, worse,
her wrathful, gelatinous monster-mother. We knew
you were out, Thursday being Single Seniors' Bingo Night
at the rec center from nine to one. Tucking him into the angle of my arm, his feet
dangling against my torso, we made our brazen escape
back through the window, which I left gaping open
to ensure you'd know, unquestionably, that someone
had been in your house, a stranger. You'd feel unsure in your every action,
judged, observed. Even at nine, I knew what vulnerability felt like.

But that was the final straw. Greta and I were not content with simply
the success of the retrieval, especially not after
you sheepishly recounted your discovery of the open window, the missing
feline, to Greta's grandfather, accusing
those wretched invaders
of committing the deed. We flashed our gap-toothed smiles innocently, but
it was no use. We'd been had by
the worst of 'em, and were promptly relegated to the cruel
and inhumane task
of watering your expansive, prize-winning petunia garden
while you tipped back in your sun-faded lawn chair, grinning. The observers
had become the observed, and nothing was going to sit right
in our stomachs till you paid.

We waited a week after deliberation led us to conclude
that any less was overtly incriminating, then waited for night. War paint
bouncing the moonlight, Greta and I crawled on our elbows,
silent refugees, through the hole in the fence
between the houses, shears at the ready. Methodically,
each individual blossom
was snipped free of its earth-anchor and shoved by the fistful
into one of several Stop and Shop bags. Gleeful, we scurried
back through the fence, but what of the evidence? We had to
go all-in. We devoured thousands
of flowers over the course of four hours. Our bellies aching
with what we assumed had to be pride, we vomited victoriously
and waited for your shrieks come morning.

8:27 PM

I have too many people coming at me from too many angles and proclaiming themselves pillars of universal consciousness. Don't they know the best show is seen from the last row of the crowded auditorium?

11:19 PM

I become fixated too quickly. Everything becomes a reference to one over-exercised point.

4:45 AM

Overwhelmed would be the correct word for it, I suppose.
Tonight, I went to Jasmine's 21st birthday party in rainboots and had to wrestle Liz's phone away from her so she wouldn't curse out her most recent hook-up via text message. Today, I cuddled with Colleen in her bed most of the day and analyzed "Degrassi" as if it were a profound piece of literature. Last night, I dressed up for Dana's Staten Island-themed 21st birthday party, stayed on the table for twelve games, fled the cops and took care of Beckie's little sister while she vomited everything inside of her out.
At least I'm achieving my goal of socialization, right?

11:31 pm

I have been in a strange place. There is only wine to drink and only bread to eat, but I know what you're thinking, and it's so far from biblical it's laughable. There is nothing moral or righteous about these goings-on.

4:24 AM

Breaking Irving's bicycle with twigs.

Well, I feel like a grape
with peeled-off grape-y skin:
liberated, but softer
to forks jabbing in.

4:20 AM

Monet's gardener probably wore gloves.

You swear you've been
born fresh a hundred times,
but, baby, can you even remember
when a hundred was a big number? You make meaning
out of what you're
given, and you've done a good job
selecting your stimuli. There's no hope
for people like us these days.

4:16 AM

Scolding the FutureMouse.

It was just tonight
(it took all the way till tonight!) that I
realized that all
my friends are daydreamers
and all your friends
are felons, and maybe it's got
something to do
with the ways we were raised, but
everyone had
a bad childhood, and that's hardly
an excuse, anymore.

4:13 AM

There's no such person as Alice.

I had a dream,
I had a dream,
but what does it mean?
I painted rubber cement
o'er the mouth of a queen.
I dripped dribbles,
smeared squiggles;
I pasted her quiet
with dismal drizzling.
No more giggling or
chin-wiggling from that
fat Cheshire Cat-of-a-thing!
Her orders then had borders:
the corners of her food-hoarder.