We begin at the surprisingly clean apartment of a very talented friend. Dalia is sitting at her computer, working on her copywriting job, while I sit at my computer working on nothing of consequence (this). I came here because it’s what I call a “real mental illness day,” which is just to say that 1) I am withdrawing from weed in preparation of an international trip (that is still, as of yet, uncertain), 2) I reread months of text messages between myself and the love of my life (my six month situationship) this morning and want to feel sorry for myself, and 3) I love to pretend that my mental health is still in the same state as three years ago (which it is, thankfully, not). In exchange for her hospitality, I interrupt Dalia’s work with a word of sage advice: coconut oil will do wonders for your hair. I credit my other friend (the second of four) with this revelation, instead of the millions of Indians who have been doing it for centuries.

We put gel in our eyebrows and watch them miraculously harden before Dalia suggests we get bubble tea–an idea I can get behind, but just barely. When Dalia asks who’s driving, I volunteer because, while I know she loves and accepts me as the passenger princess I am, it’s only fair. We pull out of the church parking lot that doubles as Dalia’s place’s parking lot, and head to the nearest bubble tea store. On the drive I take note of the church’s newest sermon series–”Messy Spirituality: God’s Annoying Love for Imperfect People,” to me a more convincing campaign than any Bible booklet I’ve ever received from customers–and Chamoy Creative’s drastic move from 145 E Holly Avenue to 147 E Holly Avenue (the sign on 147 proudly proclaiming “Yes, we’ve moved here!”). Google Maps directs me to make an illegal U-turn that I don’t take out of my profound respect for the law, or maybe my fear of U-turns, but we still arrive safely. One taro-jasmine-milk-tea-with-milk-cap (an embellishment, for there was no milk-cap) and one passion-fruit-green-tea-with-original-boba-half-sweet later, I take her back to her place, where the busy bee leaves me. I thank her for her company, always a pleasure, and feel sorry to have burdened her, and feel even sorrier that I think that I have burdened her. 

On the drive back (alone again, alone again), I have to get gas and I loop around the same pump twice to get close enough, and still have to adjust. (Remind me to handle my “maintenance required” light tomorrow–Tuesday, but more likely Wednesday.) (As it turned out, it was next Monday.)

At home, I piss outside by the bush where I remember my late cat (rest in peace Lisa, you angel) used to rest in her last days and wonder if this is disrespectful mid-piss, only it’s too late now, and at least she isn’t buried there (though maybe she should have been). I take my Christmas present from my sister (The Sentence by Louise Erdrich–more on this later) outside and try to read it before I get distracted by acorns on the ground. The acorn I’m looking at wants to be broken apart, the desperate thing, and knowing that acorns can be made into flour and then into bread, I chip into it in an attempt to get my first solid food of the day. When it’s so bitter I have to spit it out, spluttering over and over again on my shoes, I figure it’s time to figure out the real thing and I set out to gather as many suitable acorns as I can stand in a reusable HEB tote. My (living) cat Maxxie joins me, and I notice that he is a lot less anxious and open to petting outside than he is inside. I try to sing a song to him, but as I’m freestyling for the first time since elementary–when I thought I had created a masterpiece that was just me unknowingly ripping off the tune of “Love the Way You Lie” by Eminem ft. Rihanna)–I give him a haunting childlike tune that begins and ends with “one acorn, two acorn, three acorn, four” and I do not think he enjoys it because he leaves.