Friday

1. Exhausted but better, calmer, less paranoid.
2. A moth caught between the shower curtain and liner.
3. Cashier says she just wants to go home and inexplicably bags my single pack of Trident.
4. The taste of metal on my tongue. A tear in my cheek.
5. A shove in the wrong direction.
6. Spiders on the chair. My body a map of their progress.
7. So much nothing.
8. Phone buzzes on the dresser. Paranoia creeps back, makes a home in my bed.
9. A lull. Strawberry ice cream.
10. From the roof: More roofs.

Thursday

1. Rearrange pillows, discard clothing.
2. Dream of flaking plaster, of new tile and carpet that won't shed.
3. Cream cheese boulders.
4. Fake nails trace laminated sashimi.
5. Twelve year celebrations of what's been dead for half as long.
6. "This was my favorite part as a kid," and Are we not kids?
7. Amber doesn't stop pedaling.
8. Car stereo clicks.
9. Nine key sticks.
10. Dad says "Where ya been?" and falls asleep immediately.

Wednesday

1. Veins contract, sting with synthetic cancer. Nurse smiles and says "One less."
2. Tap poor rhythm on the steering wheel. This song was shitty to begin with.
3. Feet fling me too far forward and Go ahead, cement. Scrape my skin off.
4. No, please, in front of all these people -- just peel me like an orange.
5. Cut the paper into strips. Fold the strips into squares. I am surrounded by trash.
6. Fruit stickers fresh from the laundry. A denim peach.
7. Bridges into fall. I cross the asphalt barefoot.
8. Buttons strain, cheeks swell. I blame what's not to blame.
9. Everything seems out of place.
10. Everything is out of place.

Tuesday

1. Wake up twice. Work a bagel in between.
2. Dry myself with last week's towel. Watch my knee bleed.
3. Attempt to position lenses so my eyelashes don't touch. Give up. Squint.
4. Convince Moxie to lick the hot sauce from the tile. Hope cats have no capacity for revenge.
5. Listen to Nicole talk about my skin. Pay Nicole thirty-five dollars to stop talking about my skin.
6. Come home hating home. Listen to the last six minutes of 'Oh Comely' with the transmission in park.
7. Buy two blueberry yogurts. Label one poison.
8. Refuse to believe anyone refers to Sprite as "White Coke." Consider selling Texas back to Mexico.
9. Bookmark recipes. Bake chicken. Kill Dad.
10. Don't really kill dad.

Monday

1. Nectarine juice bleeds right through yesterday's paper. I make a little window out of "verdict."
2. To Janice with the ladybug stickers, I am Heather. Muscle memory signs the waiver, and now Deather can't sue.
3. Brian shifts the towel to shake my hand, apologizes for the sweat, and all I can say is "Sorry for high school."
4. The man at the door isn't selling anything. The man at the door isn't selling anything. He's not selling anything. The man at the door isn't selling anything. It's a business opportunity .
5. Molly sulks, thinks the thunder is a punishment. Bryce and I laugh, but it kind of is.
6. Meatloaf sticks to the pan. Mom asks questions I don't answer.
7. Dad talks about football. I think.
8. A hand chases the remote between the cushions, but my palm comes up gritty so I read about birds instead.
9. No one calls.
10. I finally throw the letters away.

Sunday

1. A hole in the blanket. Or a dead bird in my bed.
2. Three separate breakfasts. The kitchen smells like bacon again and again.
3. And again.
4. An explanation of the limited lifespans of fruit trees. I carve my name on a low branch.
5. Strangers pray, shift their weight, pray. Some smoke in the parking lot. Others sin indoors.
6. Memories of Russia don't stay pasted to the $2 paper, so I use tape instead. Everything looks appropriately half-assed.
7. Dad finally picks up the phone. I repeat myself until 60 really seems like 60.
8. Shoe store lady says she likes my sundress, but I process the compliment too slowly, and say "Ok."
9. Dinner ends with seven too many cookies. I give up calculating and add grapes as a chaser.
10. Six months since six months ago. I walk inside smiling and Mom says "What?"Sees the phone and says "Oh."