Eat only from the bowl

Well I made it until 2. And now Tula and I are sharing a bowl of popcorn in bed except she keeps licking the kernels and leaving them, so I gave her a pile which she’ll leave anyway, which I’ll have to clean up. It’s raining. It’s been raining.

I don’t know if popcorn and orange juice is a remedy for anything, but it sounded good and it tastes good. I’m glad to be warm in bed away from the world. The green bedside lamp is on for warm sea company, the cars are wooshing outside almost like water rushing to meet sand, except I know it’s dirt and tires.

Last night Pat said I did a reading in college that I don’t even remember. I read some poem about condoms, he said. And I think I know which one he’s talking about. It was a poem I completely made up. A poem an older classmate, who was one of my teachers at one point, said she could see it and me being somewhere someday. Whatever that means now. At the time it sounded like fame and glory. Or maybe to her it was just a dark stage and a coffee shop. I even remember her name. It was Bridgette. And her mom was someone sort of famous, at least at the school or the town. That poem seems so stupid now, but maybe I’ll read it again. To myself. See if it stirs anything.

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