Thursday, December 19, 2019

In the morning it read like this...

My goal for the day is to be okay.

Me, here, words and cat. Positive thoughts all three. The butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker. I go looking up next lyrics only to find I have been convinced of donating to Wikipedia before reaching the Delphi of Knaves. The viral presence at the center of my uvula radiates through my ears and nose. It pushes against the gag in my throat, burning all the way down. My son said something about curiosity and cats before plunging into the glove box for medical masks, and I wondered what in that compartment could possibly kill an animal. Our viruses are binary stars, one orbiting the other, gravitationally pulling into the cluster any compromised immune systems—a droplet of spittle or phlegm at a time. Disease brings us together. Or marks our circle of friends.

Jesus would have dated a trans woman. He would never speak to her unkindly, would never tell her she should get some help with age-appropriate fashion choices. Jesus was good with women. That lady at the well, when she reached out to draw water, exposing a swarthy breast five times fondled, Our Lord didn't so much as flinch. Just offered all-you-can-drink and a complimentary palm reading.

I'm all in for aligning stars.

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