there’s never any traffic on Friday morning

Maya Angelou is on Sesame Street today. Yesterday it was REM.

This morning I was blow drying my hair, bent over at the waist. As a droplet of water made what must be a Niagara Falls-like journey off my ass, I was confused for a short moment as to what time of day it was. I’m not going cuckoo. It’s just that when you do the same thing over and over again, day after day, year after year, the details sometimes begin to lose meaning. How many times have I stood on the bathmat, drying my hair upside down, and felt a droplet of water run off some part of my body? Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. What does it mean? Nothing. What’s the meaning of life? Banana.

What’s it like to be followed by a moonshadow? Is it fun or scary? Perhaps I shouldn’t listen to Cat Stevens at work.

I think the thing that will drive me from Houston some day won’t be the soulless gentrification of neighborhoods that I used to dig or the fact that corners such as the SW one at Westheimer/Kirby are slowing becoming unrecognizable or the city’s obvious disdain for anything “old.” No, the thing that will make me leave some day is whatever it is in the air that makes my right eye water and feel like it’s getting pushed out of socket. I don’t know what it is. Tree pollen. Pollution. Cat dander. Whatever it is causes headaches on a painfully regular basis and makes my eye drippy. Pretty girl.


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