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Sugar Honey Baby

Yesterday, as the clouds blew across the sky and the sidewalk cracks told time, I wrote a story in my head. It matches the bruises on my thighs and the crack in my forehead. 

Something inside of me has been uneven lately. Tilted. The sun helps, but I'm still not sure how swallowing a capsule can provide the same result. 

Do you need sugar pills to feel happy?

I think we all take a sugar pill of some kind. They get us through the day when the day's obligations are too much of what we do not want and not enough of what we need.

That is nothing new. 

Force down whatever acrid brine or compacted concoction you need to fuel you and your body. What is the difference, I wonder. Are you not your body? I once read a book where a supermodel and a normal human girl were in a freak accident and the normal human's brain got transplanted into the supermodel's body. The girl was amazed that her new body actually craved vegetables.

I saw an Arizona license plate yesterday. My license plate says Kansas. Isn't that strange? I think I would like to have no license plate, no $900 piece of metal that ties me anywhere. 

Today when I sat down in the sunny corner of the library, the man next to me told his headphones, "I'll just find a seat next to the bathroom so I can puke whenever I need to." Is it terminal? Self-inflicted? Apparently one in four people get cancer in their lifetime, if they're lucky. If they aren't, they'll get it twice. Or something else along with it. My mom tells us at Thanksgiving that she is ready to die. Just know, she says, I'm okay with it. She is healthy. She eats pizza and chocolate if she wants to. She does not understand the need to stretch a life longer than it should be.

I am trying very hard to not let things like shelves or bar stools or rugs or linen shorts determine how I feel or who I am. I am trying to let experiences like Marlon William's voice and the sun's rays and the wind in the trees and chicken teriyaki stir fry at 10:00 pm determine how I feel and who I am.

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