French vanilla almond granola

I had to move my car by 10:00 for fear that the Philadelphia Parking Authority would catch me. They would attempt to slap me with a fine, but at the wrong hour of the morning, and then I would be the one to make them pay. For the puddle of rain water on the driver’s side, for stupid stupid television, for all the noise in my pocket, for the dirty apple sauce that caused my nose to run. Again. I can't keep fleeing like this! Perry slumbered like a baby and his hair was long.

I forgot the granola, but Perry remembered the pizza. It tasted like 0% food because the previous night had also already been forgotten, save for the over-extension of my arms and beer like a nightcap.

The umbrella was broken and borrowed with mangled prickly pieces of metal that I could have used to poke tiny holes through my eyes so that my brain could finally see through. And then maybe in turn, my eyes could rest and they wouldn't be so weary and angry all the time. I scurried like a squirrel and did a K-turn in the middle of the 4700 block. Perry's house emerged as my tree, my hole in a tree where I could disappear until the rain subsided or the tree just collapsed. Forcing me back to a place where people run over me with cars. Fuck fuck fuck.

I was awake at 4am and I couldn't stop breathing. A lot. There were so many breaths and I hated them. One for my workday, another for the flea market, another for my "nez qui coole," one for the future, one for Perry because my arms are too long and he looked like he was laying in a thin and crunchy pile of dead grass, the view from my hole in the tree.

And I was bleeding and I can't tell if that's why. In any case, I forgot the granola. That could have changed the course of the day, of Dec 11th 2008 where I scowled 200 times and awoke with no direction. Maybe I could've seen with my brain today.

I showed Perry about BFF and fidgeted on the kitchen floor. He told me to see a career counselor about all my complaining.

Ginnie gobbled down her cat food as if it were French vanilla almond granola. I could hear her little teeth chomping like my fish used to do. Her head is so small. Cats are not complicated; their lives are marked by catnip and no response to catnip. She doesn't respond to catnip, only bags, balls, and string and not really the mouse that I crocheted for her. I have to craft mice forever if I'm going to make it in this world, through such heavy breaths and no light switch except for those flicky portable ones hiding on shelves in the living room. I'm going to hand deliver the mice to people or cats, HAND DELIVER. Because what if they got lost in so much disorder?

I sulked and pouted and I don't know what Perry did. I need to know because I miss him. He told me to give myself something to look forward to.

I left kind of late, but wasn't late to work. There was way too much to do. Someone came in to talk to the kids about culture and islands.