Texas is overrun with saber-toothed cats, giant ones with fangs an average of twelve inches long. (Some say the black ones have longer ones, but I think that's a myth.) These cats have come back from the Stone Age to haunt the fertile pastures of Texas because time is all messed up everywhere. The Law of Time has been broken and now anything can come back from the past, even disco or variety shows. Everyone in Texas has been killed by the cats so far, including me. Twice. What are we going to do about it? We're going to be content with our lot in life. Time was we didn't have to worry about such things, but time is no more. As for me, I'm hoping to get a song and dance routine onto the Gong Show. Beatniks from out of history smoke hand-rolled cigarettes outside, sipping espresso, digging all the cats and daddies. Rain falls this morning, into the freezing air. Time was such sights would thrill me in arcane ways. Time will be again.
I had a conversation with love while putting away dishes. My back was sore from standing too long, stooping to lift and such. Kitchen timers screamed orders at my full hands, asking me for more and more. Love told me that hard water requires biannual replacement of rubber stoppers in toilet tanks. I made note of it and washed my hands to retrieve hot dinner from the oven, burning my knuckles in distraction as usual. Love told me to buy a new coffee maker. When I hit the sheets at night, I can hardly stay awake long enough to put the television on sleep for an hour. Sometimes I wake with the remote still in my hands. In the morning I stubbed my toe on love, sitting where I left it by the bookshelf instead of stowed behind the door in the closet, where love belongs.
I lied about the cats in the first paragraph. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "No, it's not a lie. It's a metaphor." Sometimes, however, a cat is just a cat is just a lie.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
