Monday, March 08, 2004
It is nine-thirty and here I sit holding a little tray that looks like something one might be served french fries in at a ballgame or amusement park. I hear sizzling coming from the kitchen. The g.f. is cooking something. It could be beef or chicken or pork chops. It all smells the same on The Foreman. I don't know why that is.
I've requested the T.V. be turned on. I can't concentrate. It's too quiet.
This was supposed to be a one day thing. One plus two. A three day thing. wonderful.
Now the tiny little Baskin Robbins sample spoon to stir and scoop. Tighten the cap and fill in the name and date and time. The humiliation of it all.
But within the hour the hurried steps through the living room brandishing the evidence like a child before tucking it away in it's special box.
Tomorrow the process starts again.
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