Things I Write When I am Drunk
At some point you have to stop caring.
My jeans have crusted-on brownish-orange patches, on the upper-left thigh, but not so thick. A little translucent, and this will not be resolved so soon.
Yesterday I spilled breastmilk–not my own–onto the sleeve of my gray hoodie and had no choice but to walk around, every hour a bit more sour-smelling, until 9:30, when I arrived home.
I had walked all day in the cold, expecting the moment when I’d reach home and be able to drown myself in a hot, hot bath.
But Mom was running her own bath, and what can I do? It’s her house.
And, anyways, I have no “home.” Don’t you remember, Sarah?