300

That scratch-off was a dud. I can't fucking believe it.



I am eating gluten-free crackers on the couch.


On my lap, Wilson is sleeping.



Do you like literature do you like words do you?

In his sweater and with his hair flopping across his eyes like that I was reminded of my dad.



We are trying to make it exactly like from the menu. I am in withdrawal. I read from the online description, trailing him in the grocery store. Coconut milk, broccoli, bamboo shoots, red bell pepper, carrots, onion, basil leaves, cauliflower.

When we get home, we realize we've forgotten the bamboo shoots.




I am hoping it will taste good anyway.









I am reading a story about a woman whose partner drowned while rescuing their three-year-old son from the ocean. When I say "reading," I mean the word loosely. I keep reading only the first few pages, up until the point when her child starts to slip under, knowing what's coming, and so sucking back, turning my eyes from the page, putting the book down and telling myself I'll come back to it--and when I do, I retreat again, like a wave apprehensively lapping at the edge of the shore.




I am really excited to look at the ocean with you.




We are listening to Stephen Malkmus. He puts the food on to cook. I steal a sip of his vodka and coke. It smells really, really good in here.