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waxed the kitchen floor.
Wrote a four-page
letter to my sister,
told her I was in love.
With a boy.
I think I asked
for her forgiveness.
Wrote a poem, an epic, tinged
with dark humor,
decided to give it to my mom
because this was all her fault.
Somehow.
Went to the bathroom,
considered my growling stomach,
but the thought of food made me want to heave.
Settled for a beer. That went down fine,
so I had another.
And another.
After the Fourth
No more writing paper,
nothing left to clean,
I turned on the TV,
thanked God for the
Jerry Springer marathon,
six great hours, filled
with pitiful people,
whose lives were way
worse than my own.
Hard to believe
