The guy at the smoke shop gave me a Thanksgiving plate.
I haven’t seen anyone in what feels like a long time. It’s been maybe three days. Sometimes my days merge into one long stretch with naps to break up whatever this is. I think it’s okay because I go to school and work. Sometimes. I hang out with my friends and do my laundry.
It’s cold out, and I’m underdressed. It was just too warm a few hours ago. I’m wearing clothes I barely own and don't really fit.
I get to this place. The lights are fluorescent, and if you walk on the floor a certain way, you feel a squeak in every drag. I’ve been here too many times. I think about all the people on the internet who pour resin into huge, unusual molds. They usually have some conceptual goal, but it always results in a piece of permanent junk lying around. When destruction befalls us, I'll be so glad well have things like this.
People are working on Thanksgiving. I don’t make eye contact until it's really my turn. There’s shouting, and it’s funny. I pretend to be interested in whatever I'm looking at. Or maybe I am interested.
When it’s my turn, “Plans for the night?” I forget I know how to speak. I act my usual self. Just as I’ve always been. Smiling and probably the funniest person you've ever met.
My back aches. This is the only time I’m allowed to do what I’m doing. Most of my steps today have been from climbing up and down the stairs every time I thought I needed to be in the kitchen. I usually black out for the two flights of stairs back up. At least I'm not winded anymore.
I bite into something I shouldn't have. It disturbs me, but not enough for me to care. I deal with the discomfort and swallow. I’m the same kind of person who eats the skin off a kiwi. I’ll be okay. My plate has been warmed up at least three times now. On it are two blocks of beige food, rice, chicken, and collard greens. The rest of the plate is mush– but fairly good homemade mush. I feel grateful. I might as well do this again.
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