It doesn't go the way he wants. Evan rips the page out and from there it's either crumpled and thrown on the floor or ripped and thrown on the floor or folded into a dive-bombing plane that dive-bombs into the floor. Then to a fresh and unsullied blank sheet.
MR. POOPYHEAD HAS A FLYING CAT
STINKY THE ROBOT AND HIS THOUSAND BILLION ROBOTS
WHY THE BUTT CROSSED THE ROAD
Aaaggggh. (rip) (tear) (whoosh)
Enough enough enough, good grief. Good grief, maybe, but it takes a turn in your belly like too much lobster. A girl in grade nine looked me up after a school reading of The Dread Crew and sent me an email that said You've changed the way I think and I tried to figure out how to feel about that. It depends. I'm fine with that if I've taught her all about gay love, or rather love for everyone, respect. Loving anyone just the same as anyone else, without your business infringing on someone else's business, because hospitality has nothing to do with business or else it's just not hospitality.
I looked back and back and back. She said she kept losing her place and had to find it again to keep reading. There are endless endings and end-related aftershocks and endless endy endiness here and in saying so, I'd like to establish the frown that you can't see right now. But I'm tearing a bunch of stuff off and starting with a fresh sheet.
There's messages everywhere. This is the universe sighing and saying Will you just rip that off and start a new page for chrissake.
It's so pretty in the woods right now. There's constant mist as frost lets go and grips on again, and the sunshine, drained of its heat, still tries, and everything is simultaneously dead and alive and passing through doorways. The woods right now are silent like being inside a room.
I lay down and slept.
I sat with turkeys and chickens and a friend on Thanksgiving Monday and we didn't say much.
When I eat by myself I cook for myself, my table this Dahlian piece of scribbled-on lumber laid across the arms of a comfy chair. Mussels with coconut milk and red curry. Asparagus and crispy fried tomato and poached egg for breakfast and very hot tea. Porridge with butter and walnuts and peaches. God the haddock from the haddock lady, with those salted Acadian herbs and a panko batter. Turnip baked and baked with brown sugar and apples into a sweet candied heap. Tempeh meatballs with miso gravy and mashed potatoes when it's cold enough for a fire.
A ritual of food convinces me despite all evidence that I am taking care of myself because I just know this: if I had shovelled Kraft Dinner on top of what I have been, I would have wilted into something very grey and I might have stayed that way. Food is the one defiant act of self-care that I haven't dropped. I am nothing fancy but I try and that's exactly what self-care is. Trying, regardless.