i smell like bugspray (and if we’re being honest, there’s probably a hint of sweat mixed in there. i intend to shower directly.) because i was helping a friend with her garden. she’s the only 18 year old person in the entire world with a garden and she’s so damn proud of the thing i feel stupidly honored to be part of its maintenance. i’m allergic to half the things in there, but i don’t care. she and her garden are worth the scratchy eyes and ceaseless strings of sneezes.
sneezes, by the way, are such strange little convulsions. but as it happens we’re strange little things.
i’m eating cinnamon bears are they are delectable. if i were still five or so i wouldn’t eat them because they have faces. i had this weird stipulation about food when i was little: if it had a face --especially a particularly cute or otherwise compelling one-- i usually refrained from eating it. for instance, my parents once had to apologize profusely to the restaurant people when i wouldn’t eat my pancakes because they had used blueberries (eyes), a strawberry (nose), and a strip of bacon (smile) to form a face. they even used scrambled eggs for hair. i cried when they dismantled it.