It's 3:40 p.m. My utterly weary child is upstairs eating junk food, working on short answers for the remainder of the essay test she started today on Their Eyes Were Watching God, which the sophomore honors English classes have been working on since October, I think. The book, not the test.
I'm sorry if you read this, Dear English teacher, and happily doubt that you will, but you really pretty much suck. (She assigns difficult projects with impossible deadlines and never bothers grading them.)
My girl plans to fall asleep after she finishes eating.
Back to Reverb 10 until I decide I don't want to be "at it."
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).
(Author: Ali Edwards)
That's a cop out, though. I may just not feel like being descriptive today. I've been doing enough of that in the novel(s) I'm writing.
I refuse to pick one. I feel most alive right now with the taste of salty potato on my tongue and the idea of snow on my skin.
In five minutes, when I call upstairs to my daughter to tell her I'm leaving to mail a bill and gas up the car, I'll feel most alive when I trip on her carpeted steps and grab hold of the loose handrail I've taped to the wall with blue masking tape.
And after that, I'll feel alive when I chase the cat around the house trying to catch him to see if he still has poop stuck to his butt after a litter box session (a new issue).
And after that
I'll feel most alive.