Her Pen of Lies and Horrors

Only She and I Know
2019-05-26 19:06:12 (UTC)

On a Silver-Gray Sunday

1:18pm

I woke later than I am accustomed to waking, close to 9:30am, and I reminded myself of these necessary details: that I was pet-sitting for my former boss, Ms. Wells (pausing now to check on a Tinder notification) which is why the room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and also why two insistently-affectionate pitbulls were upon me as soon as my eyes fluttered open. The rapid succession of thoughts and actions chased the cobweb of my dreams away...

My brain was mildly sludgy like it always is when I get high before I fall asleep. I've never been one to hop up out of bed at the sound of my alarm, but today especially, with it's plump silver clouds and cool breezes, I wasn't in any hurry to leave the cocoon of bed. I fucked around on my phone. I snuggled the pups and scratched them behind their floppy ears. I tried to remember my dreams because I was carrying with me a faint inkling of those midnight stories and I wanted to remember what they were. Their residue was unsettling, but I was so sure that there was some deep meaning to be had... but I couldn't remember them and no one was being interesting on Facebook, so I got up to tend to the chickens.

Ms. Wells, my former boss, has 14 chickens. This has been the first time in my long pet-sitting career that I have had to take care of chickens. It's quite simple: In the mornings, I scoop buckets of feed and scratch from the bags in the garage, then I stroll out to their yard behind the storage shed and let myself into the pen. (Pausing again to respond to this guy on Tinder. He's older than me and I'm not terribly interested in him, but I like the company of his conversation). I let them out of the coop and pour the scratch on the ground for them, then empty the feed bucket into their food dish. I try to hold one or two of them. I leave them to their business all day and then round them up and back into their coop before sunset. And that's it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. They are not old enough to lay eggs, which disappoints me because I wanted to try my hand at collecting eggs.

(Took another break from writing to message my ex-boyfriend).

8:49pm
I've returned home and I'm happy to be in my own space again. I love the lush yard just beyond my back porch and I am fond of imagining that the wall of trees that grows thick by the irrigation ditch cutting through the property hides an ancient forest behind it, and I wonder what walks there.

I'm proud of my productivity. I've washed dishes, done two loads of laundry, made up my bed with clean linens, fixed soup for dinner, and sat quietly reading my book with the cat in my lap. I found myself glancing up from the page now and then, eyeing the sliding glass door that leads to my covered wooden porch and the trees beyond it. But the curtains were drawn so there was nothing to see I don't think.

11:39pm
I took my nighttime medications well over an hour ago, but sleep eludes me.

I came out into the living room to play The Sims on my phone. I leafed through a leather-bound journal with a great, dead tree embossed on the front- a recent gift to me from a friend's mother (she and I share the bond of writing). I gave brief attention to plans for the party I'm hosting tomorrow evening. I can't motivate myself to do anything, it seems, but write in this diary so that strangers might find it and read it.

What is it that I want from you? And do you want something from me?




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