And I burnt it. To be fair, it was my first time, but all the lovely subtleties were lost to the garrulous presence of smoke and my own disappointment.
To spare my sleeping family, I brought the blender outside. I told myself the burnt flavour was good, that the mole didn’t taste too strongly of cheap licorice. Every splash of stock added to the mix pained me; fears of dilution and solids, that the leaky, creaky blender would finally give up the ghost partway through. As I folded the mix through my mother’s finest sieve, I couldn’t help but sigh and swear exasperatedly.
I let myself out the back door and started smoking an old cigarette I’d found at the back of my sock drawer. I could feel the dutch oven’s indignation in my cheeks as the slight rush of nicotine hit me. I came of age in this house, I thought. It was and is a place of many firsts and memories — why was this any different, I thought. There is always the first time.
I looked around and realised just how bright and beautiful the moon was, and suddenly felt a great deal more cheerful. I fumbled for my phone and raised it skyward.
Clouds had moved in.
Walking to a free open-air concert, I stopped to look up...
I stand on the curb."Am I supposed to open the door for you? Are you disabled?"
I'm lying in bed while it rains in Los Santos.
You don't realize, he said to his 20 year old cousin, that your parents are no more messed up than you will be.
He ran out mid-service to throw up last night.
Been playing too much GTA.
There's a band in there, apparently.
Been going in circles today. Roads, parking lots, it's all the same to me.
I was supposed to see a movie.