There is a trick to life, but I am not a magician. There is a problem that is not my own, but is made my own. There is a cool night, and I know, but do not really know. There are two ice cubes in my glass of water, and each one has its own housefly. There are bills I have to pay, but I think I will claim they never arrived. There is a hill of socks without matching pairs. There are bits of this and that on the rug, which my vacuum cleaner will not suck up, yet it loves loose change.
Angelina asked if I would rather live on the moon, or in a tree. I think about this, really think about this. I say that I would rather live inside the moon. She is upset, eats her cookie, and bits of it collect in the corners of her mouth. My hellhound eats a cookie, and bits collect in the corners of his mouth. I notice that both niece and dog smell the same. A mixture of corn chips and earth.
I have now watched every terrible children’s television show made in the last five years. I have also learned how to get by on one hour of sleep. I can make ooey gooey, chocolate chip cookies. I buy them in a package, heat them in the oven, and take full credit. And no one, no one at all, can pretend to be happy as well as I can.