Hates 9.17.13

Slow-moving drains. No amount of mental effort can protect me from watching the scummy white foam of my toothpaste spit as it slowly swirls the drain and—once it finally ebbs—picturing the loogie's sluggish passage through pipes clogged with hair, dark grime, and mucus residue.

In-town driving. Highway driving gives you that sec to relax and feel the pull of the open road, but start-and-stop shifting from here to there—suffocating. It makes you wanna get a horse and ride it along a river watching leaves drop slowly from graceful branches.

Back hurt. I have a hot poker between my shoulder blades that talks of stress both new and old. Nothing to do but hot shower and cold wood floor.

Empty printer cartridges. Who even uses their printer these days? But when you need it, ya need it. And that's when you ascertain that the black ink's all gone, which is why your boarding pass is just a pale ghost on white paper. Just like last time. When you vowed to buy a new cartridge. And forgot.

Peeling garlic. Clumsy fingers fumbling with paper-thin skin, which flakes off and sticks everywhere, while precious minutes tick by and you're only half way through the first clove. It's upsetting.