I heard something fall on the air conditioning unit, and my first instinct was to grab the machete. No intruder is getting in my window with his spleen intact. The skin inside my ear is splitting again, and all I can do is to keep touching it with unclean hands. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I close my eyes, and let the tinkling sound of bells fall as I reach for a cup of freeze dried instant coffee. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I could unlock this door right now, and walk straight into the bright light of the walkway, but there’s an unknown that keeps me from wrenching open what I do not know I do not know. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I dreamed again that I was on a stage, but my elusive friend was there also, and I was attempting to keep the screws from sticking out of the wood, and we kept leaping from train car to train car. Why did he disappear at the time that I needed him most, and why do I feel the need to bury that part of my life into the narrative of a girl who compulsively spraypaints blank walls? And, why, oh why, oh why does it feel as though the next time he resurfaces, we’ll be on opposite sides of some war? Why do I worry so much about war, and why do I still dream about the way he used to touch my hair? Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. The wax is dripping in every flicker of the panther-barricaded sunrise. All I need is one more sleeve of cigarette, and a breath of something gentle. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. Ting. Ping. Ping. Gong….

The solution to our bathtub being clogged was an adventure. We snuck out of the house to a marina on the lake, and borrowed their public showers. Micah kept warning me that the facilities might be gross, but he underestimates me. It looked just like college, except all the hot water hadn’t been used up by some sorority girl.
I was thinking today about how some people, or really, those that are used to creature comforts, are used to “slumming it up” as long as it’s temporary. I was thinking about this while grumbling about the price of the overpriced sandwich on my plate, and reminiscing that one of my cousins used to work at an overpriced sandwich place. Now, she’s about to become a lawyer, and since the last time I saw her two years ago, she’s gotten prissier and prissier, but I still remember that at one time, she was a sandwich-slinger in khaki pants. At one time, she had to mop a floor for money. Now, it’s like that person is a million miles away. I’ve always said that the people who are most likely to treat people lower on the social totem pole with respect are those that have been there, but I gotta wonder if, to some people, being covered in cheese dip is not something that makes you a “minimum wage slave” but just something you have to put up with until your champagne wishes come true. I don’t ever want to become prissy. And I don’t ever want to forget that it sucks being covered in cheese dip. Especially when you get hit in the eye with it. Ouch.