Brown Rice Takes The Longest, But It’s the Best For You.


As I’m waiting for the timer to ding, I’m perched on the edge of my seat, Toulouse snoring loudly and tucked in beside the laptop.

Perched on the edge of my seat. Are you listening?

I ran this by my brother, because he knows things about your chromosome. He says you are probably running game, which I already knew, but that it sounds like it comes from a genuine place of hurt.

Who among us has NOT been hurt? Who isn’t terrified to meet a new gaze directly? To peel off the layers and show someone your muffin top, or pot belly, or jiggly thighs for the first time? And I mean this metaphorically of course. Anything else is far too presumptuous right now.

This entry is directly for you, and I wonder if you are still reading this?

I have told you I am a cynic. You cannot imagine what I have survived in these last seven years of my life. I’ve purposely left out the facts in these many pages, because there is so much more to me than what is written here. I am wide-eyed now, and I can tell you this; I am not afraid, nor am I stupid. We need to get on with this. This is meant to be positive, and exciting, and simple, but I am loosing patience. I think you know that now.

Come out of your hiding place. Or don’t. I know you have gleaned enough from our epic missives to know that I have nothing but goodness to offer you. Perhaps that is what makes you hesitate so…

Is it that you want to be in a better place? A different place? I could draft my own list of things, and events, and accomplishments I’d like under my belt before this. Before you. For example, I’d love to have a driver’s license. I’d feel like a more realized adult. An independent woman…I could drive to a little cottage by the lake then, and make my hair smell like campfire, and maybe eat s’mores off your chest.

Our exchange has been extraordinary. I know lots of people, but none like you. It’s time to know you now. For real.

CAP?

Carriage Return


My heart feels like an 8 x 11 sheet with one too many typos, snatched from the machine, crumpled into a hard, angry ball and tossed in the general direction of the waste paper basket, which it has narrowly missed and has instead landed with a faint thud on the broadloom beside your old sneakers.