So I’m standing in my kitchen. I’m standing there, back against the pantry, and I’m looking around the room. I’ve just moved into my new house in Pittsburgh, and everything is scattered this way and that. Everything is boxed, bagged, or just plain lost. Naturally in all of this mess, a lighter is nowhere to be found.
A cig hangs from my wind-chapped lips, unlit. I’m looking at all of the air surrounding me, the tremendous piles of cardboard boxes that are holding anything from a collection of multicolored ribbons to a box of silverware. In my life, there is no rational place for things to be, and so there is no rational place for things to be found either.
Directly across the room from me is the stove. I remember 6 or so houses ago, the one where I had painted my ceiling pink, when I would light my cigs on the gas stove. It seemed like an alright idea.
A minute later, I’m standing in front of the mirror puffing on the cigarette and wondering how long it takes for eyelashes and eyebrows to grow back. The bangs are easy to fix. I just knock off the burnt stuff and tuck them back into my head wrap. I’m looking in the mirror again, trying to reason with my new look. I do this for awhile, and then I decide that I want to start writing again.