you can't fire me, i...

stop, start, stop, start, stop.

a new car every morning. remember never to sit in the front seat. sometimes it's like waking up from a dream in which you were drowning, the way the air rushes back into your lungs and your brain reminds you of its will to live. of its fear of coming in contact with the rear-end of the car in front of you. brake, shift, brake, shift, brake. coming (too) close to the guardrail. you sit still and read your book and hope for the best.

little brother says thirty-one is really thirty, it means you're really in your thirties and there's nothing you can do about it. maybe celebrate your 29th ad infinitum but 29 wasn't such a great year. four. four was good. being little and snuggling on the couch with dad during nap time. comfortable for you. not so for him. everything looming overhead. everything new and impossible. shadows and birds cawing and the pavement hard under your feet as you ran home. you said, "let's pretend," and you could really do it. pretend. make the world new, every morning.

all headstones should say: eris quod sum.

don't tell the same story over and over again. it's gauche.

he asks, what do people mean when they say "of course?"
you say, it's like, "you're welcome," or, "no problem," like when you say "thanks for the ride" and they say, "of course." but you start to second guess yourself, because you're not really sure what it means, maybe it's a shortened version of "...a matter of course," which you think translates to, "it is a given," but there's too much to explain so he shrugs his shoulders and you shrug your shoulders even though the entire exchange takes place over the phone.

say something. say anything. but turn off that boombox, people are trying to sleep and for god sakes, get out of the rain.