Iâm standing in the kitchen in my underwear and a sweater that isnât mine. My cheeks are flushed warm and my legs are cold.
Iâm not quite remembering what Iâm supposed to be doing, but I know itâs not sitting with my knees to my neck on the windowsill, drinking that damn coffee blend I donât even like out of my prized blue-stripe tea cups.
Thereâs probably an essay to be written, a library book to find, a sweater to mend, a meal to cook.
Instead I write this out the notepad I keep on the counter, dreading the cold shower Iâm about to take, and face Iâm about to put on.
(written in my kitchen notepad sometime in september)















