I kind of attacked the pizza with my mouth, grateful for my good teeth and their cutting power. It had eggplant, tomatoes, seasoned cheese. I fed the crust to the dog and swallowed my wine. My beard was getting thick enough I could tug on it in a way that both hurt and felt good at the same time. Some of the plants were dying. We had no excuse, there was nothing much to do. The cat and dog followed us around and napped all day. Now that we were home you could see how much they really slept, how little they “did.” I kept the clocks well wound and pretty much in sync with each other and sometimes they all went off at the same time, like the planets had aligned and it meant something but the truth is it didn’t. I was thickening up around the waist but wore mostly PJs with a string fashioned as a belt.

Categories: humor, microblogging, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer