Meanwhile, 500 gallons of nitric acid are flooding the registry. My coworkers and my boss are all in agreement that I shouldn’t take Musette home. Sleep on the couch, they say. They’re even excited about me bringing my dog. So I had to lie and tell them that I took them to my father in law’s, who also lives downtown.

Truth is we’re too lazy not to sleep in our own bed.

Tomorrow I’ll be down to one puff per moment, and then I’ll start dripping moments as the days progress, until I’m out.

I’m all about saving time in the end. You’ve got to kill to live.

Airborne Toxic Event. Three pumps of Flonase to prime the tank. There should have been six. All the same, I snored the whole night through. It’s not like I was aware, but after a certain point, Musette got up and went to the couch. She was in a bad mood when she woke me up. I asked her if I’d done anything wrong.

No, she said. I had a rough night’s sleep and I have to work with Ulric (the manager who stabbed her in the back.)

Doing everything I can to eradicate sorry from my vocabulary, though I did just apologize to Jamie-Beth because she got upset with me for leaving the counter unmanned. The tension of these moments breaks me.

Call me what is right and natural.

You’re the way that things should be.

Self-portraits of poetry, they hurt me in how pertinent they are.

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