They Speak With One Voice or Remain Mute

self portrait as deranged twins

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The woman on the verge is traveling east to be with her mother and the monk and the entire cast of the Floridian Puerto Rican Telenovella "Cada Quien Puede Hacer De Sus Calzones Un Papalote."


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In other news, I took out the toilet, replaced the wax ring, replaced the guts, and reseated that bitch firmly. It will now flush obediently and hold still where it belongs.


No more trying to get away in the middle of the night.


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Today is left over pork sandwiches with kimchi and pickled onions and saam and ginger. We've eaten enough garlic in the past two days to keep us vampire proof for about eleven thousand years, and I'll bet we don't catch cold again till we're dead.

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The woman is afeared she'll come home to a starved and neglected bulldog, her drunken and disheveled husband passed out on the sofa.


I told her I probably wouldn't make it all the way to the sofa.


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Ha.



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Just kidding. I think she knows what I'll really be doing: pacing and nervously cleaning the house, over and over and over and over and over and over.


Did I clean under the stove burners?

Did I clean behind the refrigerator?

Did I dust the eaves?

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I am a wreckage.



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Namaste.



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