May 20th

Hands cramped, eyes bushed, posture pathetic, headache exquisite, throat hoarse, face slack. The back of my throat feels like Julia Robert’s character in all of her movies; indisputably wronged and not afraid to snivel about it. I cite climate change as the reason for my inability to swallow. The climate change occurred betwixt dusk and dawn, and it was undoubtedly man-made. I woke up this morning not to a breeze, not to a whipping wind, but to a maelstrom. My knickers frozen to my legs by a force called molecular bonding, I made like a mitochondria and powered myself into the living room. The porch door sat ajar and the heating system showed that the air flowing from the vents was at or near 49 degrees. To fight off the oncoming frostbite, I drew up what I hoped would be a shower of magma. It was lukewarm because Greg was also cleansing.

He had two comforters on his bed; I had naught but a sheet. He must’ve had a reason to commit his icy betrayal, but, as the victim in this crime of passion, I’m at a loss. To make penance, he offered me some Vitamin C and a Cincinnati smile. Now I sit here, reflecting on that smile, staring into the pond of forgiveness… but all I can see is ripples of scorn, promulgating from where my horse throat attempted to hydrate itself.