It's the thirteenth day of the month. It's Friday. Do you know where your children are? Neither do I. Now stop asking me. What a mess. It's Friday the thirteenth again, and I can't stop shaking and crying about the milk I threw over my shoulder before I got up on the wrong side of bed this morning. Without milk, all the little letters in my cereal bowl were too dry for words, so I couldn't even spell out my own name, not to mention the incantation required to ward off the spirits I keep in a jar by the door.

Emptying the jar before lunch is never a good idea, because it creates a false sense of equilibrium that doesn't always come along for the ride over the drawbridge and through the woods, especially now that grandmother's house has fallen off the mud jacks. G'ma always believed in a hearty breakfast as the foundation of proper daily nutrition, though the concept didn't amount to a hill of beans when it came to supporting the weight of her three-story cottage. Two stories would have provided more than enough anxiety to keep me awake all night in those dark woods, but by the time she got to the one about CIA operatives kidnapping little children, all the Haldol in her medicine cabinet wasn't enough to keep me from swimming over to my grandfather's side of the channel.

My grandparents never had much in the way of bandwidth, and interleaved digital modes were still on the bottom rack of the oven. Those were different times.



  1. Your zinger, "Those were different times," induced spasmodic chuckle-spasms in my chest.

  2. My great aunt Vpnzl had chest spasms once. She blamed the Consumption, but it turned out to be a small hydrogen bubble from a passing zeppelin.