Please, ocean cloud, let there be no storm.

Last night I thought it would be a fabulous idea to try and cook myself real food. Two hours were spent buying groceries for/ making/ cleaning up after a tofu scramble with shitake mushrooms and basmati rice. I thought the whole endeavour was going to go off without a hitch until I abandoned my stove for MSN and burned said scramble to a crisp. The smoke detector gave me a a heart attack and it must have been highly amusing for the people in the apartments across the street to watch me beating a sunshine yellow dishtowel back and forth in the general direction of the ceiling until I shut the damn thing up. It took twenty minutes to scrape the carbon off the bottom of my frying pan. Such is my life as a domestic goddess.

I went to bed at nine thirty even though I should have (could have) been up until two doing the work I've fallen so far behind on. I am more exhausted now than I was twelve hours ago. My subconscious seems to think these cruel night-time jokes are funny.

In the dream, you wept when I kissed you. It feels so good, you said. Your immaculate teeth. Your mouth smelled like wet porcelain. It feels so good.