Category: My stories

Danny is the mayor.
It’s not a big town, but he’s not a big guy.
Maybe five foot one, five foot two with those boots he wears.
But he’s got big ideas for the town, big plans.
Which is why Tania is running for mayor against him.
Tania wants to keep things the same.
“I want everything to stay the same,” she says at the debate.
“Well, what about the mayor?” says Danny. “If you become mayor, that’ll change.”
Tania thinks about it a bit, then steps away from the podium.
Danny wins.
Sure, the guy talks big, but never delivers.

The nurse asked if I needed painkillers, I didn’t need any, so I said no.
But I should have asked for some cake.
Because, seriously, I wouldn’t mind a slice of cake.
And it doesn’t have to be a big slice.
A small one would do.
I really just want that first fork of it, taste it, feel it.
Everything after that is just gastronomic dry humping and pushing rope.
That’s how the senses work, you know.
Too much of something, and you desensitize to it.
If anyone that worked with feeling dumb after every stupid injury I cause myself.

Burritos need to be wrapped like they’re about to be loaded into the back of a coroner’s wagon.
The rice needs to be so Spanish, when I walk into the restaurant, it puts me on the rack and makes me confess and convert.
The onions grilled to the point where they make themselves cry.
The refried beans need to be cooking for a decade in a pot that’s never been cleaned.
The kitchen needs to be an animal carcass horror show designed by Toby Hooper.
And when you stick in your fork, it bursts like the chef facehugged John Hurt.

It’s 49 out.
So the heat is on.
I wear a blanket… I’ve got lots of blankets.
But none of the fucking things is Goldilocks JUST RIGHT.
Some too light.
Some too heavy.
Some too thick and warm.
Some have bad memories associated with them, but I can’t bring myself to donate them or give them away or throw them out.
So, I put on a thick warm blanket, and I’m too hot.
I turn on the fan, and it’s now blowing too hard on my face.
I’m cold. I’m hot. I’m tired.
I curl in a ball and cry.

I walk for exercise.
My Apple Watch tracks my distance and pace, and lets me know when I’ve walked for 45 minutes for the day.
I try for more than 60.
Then, I sprained my knee.
Siri kept pestering me about closing my activity rings.
In spite of my being crippled.
So, I turned off the notifications and got rid of the activity watchface.
Now, I have a timer watchface.
Fifteen minutes for putting on ice.
30 minutes to take off the ice and put the pack in the freezer.
Repeat those steps until I can do my walks again.

There was a power outage at the water treatment plant.
The redundant transformers worked brilliantly… they both failed at the same time.
The pumps stopped, and the water pressure dropped for a few minutes.
It took a few hours for the city to issue a boil water warning text messages.
So, I boiled water and filled up some pitchers.
Drinking. Cooking. Brushing my teeth.
And I didn’t shower for two days.
When the notice finally came out to stop boiling water, I was boiling water for tea.
I stopped. I looked at my phone and sighed.
And took a shower.

Danny can’t write poetry.
It’s just words that rhyme. Like a six year-old would write.
So he asked one of those machines on the internet.
And it wrote poetry for him.
Good poetry. Not great, just good.
Good enough, because when he wrote it in the card he gave to the girl with the next locker over, she smiled, and she kissed his cheek.
He kept the internet machine on his phone.
And it told him the things to say, to write, and to do.
The cheerleader had the same thing on her phone.
To tell her how to respond.