the phone rings at 10:03. maybe 9:03. or 11:03. did we set this clock back yet? or were we
supposed to set it forward? what kind of lost time are we dealing with here?

"you should call matt. have you talked to matt? you're coming to thanksgiving right? you and
javeed" she butchers his name like every white person on earth "can bring chickenwings!"

"it's javid, mother, and we're not bringing chicken wings, we're bringing
desert." i pause, blowing on a grimy fistful of freshly painted nails, carefully capping the
tacky red bottle of thick red laquer. "what's wrong with matt? and are you doing thanksgiving
on thanksgiving?"
"what do you mean on thanksgiving? when the hell else would we have it?"
"i don't know. but what about matt?"
"oh," she starts with a dramatic breath while i drag the phone to a window and light a
cigarette, awkwardly logging into my e-mail with sticky fingertips. "he can't sleep and he's
going to the hospital for tests because he's just not feeling right.." she fades in and out
easily. i've spent my whole life ignoring her and i click off by instinct now when she goes
monotone and babbling. "being alone there.." i'm filtering through some email that's been sitting in
my inbox for weeks. some philipino wants to put my face on his band's cd, too many messages
typed in bad, broken english, five or six emails about fallujah (what the hell? who's sending all of
these? is this some kind of joke?)
but the loveletters from total strangers--mostly from old men but i don't mind--are the only emails
i ever really read and i store them away, unawered, feeling guilty. "i just don't anderstand what
she's thinking! i just don't get it!" well, mothers aren't supposed to get it. i trash
the french and spanish emails, cradling the phone to my ear as i grab one of the kittens by the
ankle and slide to the floor.
"your life would be so much different if grandma was still alive."
"huh?" somewhere between emails about lust and mercy killings she had shifted gears and i
quietly waited for some sort of cue.
"you don't ever think she abadonded you, do you? you know she didn't, don't you?"
"oh.."

"flat flat flat. i like my spaces to be flat. i demand that my spaces be flat."
"kansas is perfect for you."
"i know."
"you'll never get to the coast. you couldn't survive the mountians."
"i know. the altitute.."
"washington's so pretty."
"i know."

he kept trying to talk but the weed had made me surly and uncomfortable, like my body was
exhausted but the mind's wheeling at a hundred miles an hour and i just. can't. quite. drag enough
air into my lungs.

i'm nauseaus. this little cut in my mouth won't heal. i keep smelling whiffs of really strange, foul
things. aren't these cancer symptoms?

i've been stealing pens like crazy lately. stocking up. slipping them into my pocket when no one is
looking.
huh? what did you say? oh my god is that a bic?!
storing them in an old make up bag because i know i'll need them eventually. my great grandma
lived through the great depression like that. so i guess i'll make it through my great depression.

"a sombrero?"
"what?! no! a cowboy hat!"
"what's the difference?"
"it's all the difference! people will see a sombrero and think 'what the hell is that mexican doing with all those bullets?!'"