If I was a horse,
I’d be, like… into horse stuff.
Running, probably.
Or standing still in a field,
which seems like a big part of it.
Eating grass?
Yeah, definitely eating grass.

My bath bucket knows too much.
It has witnessed every version of me—
the young body, the unsure body,
the body that believed in future,
and the one renegotiating its terms.

or perhaps a very small and angry god
with an affinity for socks and unprovoked violence.

Vast, incomprehensible, and depressing, the Hurry Up and Wait is the perfect way to kill time on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Untime your blues, shave seconds off your five o’ clock shadow, or haggle a kiss away and trade it for an hour on a hot stove: This classic cocktail has it all.

It’s been the shy side of two weeks since I found myself adrift in this mid-century modern fruit basket shaped like the architectural renderings of Noah’s Ark. The oranges mock me with their zest, the lemons with their unwavering yellow. But as my fibrous plumbing leaks the fluid from my body—my stringy bits are edible by the way, right up until the end—I have but one simple request: just let me get baked. We can do it together. I know you want to.