This article says it takes the average American worker until 11:16am on Monday morning to crack their first work-week smile. Another article: cold showers can cure depression. Releases norepinephrine. 200% boost. Just 30 seconds, 3 times a week, 0 degrees celsius. Google: “cold water neurogenesis.” What do you do on Sunday nights?

Rewind. This afternoon. Put in headphones. Tap Spotify: Dr. Toast. It's finally cold in Georgia. Weather app says 42 in Fargo. 44 here. The sideway’s torn up. A temporary mesh fence surrounds the military college. Bulldozers and heavy orange equipment. Dust in the dim dark wind. Feels like a eulogy for green space, for tranquility.

The girl I massaged said her aunt just moved to Thailand. Post-election, she had to get away.

I close my eyes and see spaghetti with meatballs, sizzling garlic, caramelized onions, basil, Irish butter on golden-skinned bread.

Do you know what chiffonade means?

My watch says 99:07. That's the stopwatch. It's 3:24 and it's October and the leaves aren't on fire here like they would be in Minnesota. Orange and red and yellow. Here it's just brown paper bag blah.

I walk slowly. In my view, writing is wasting time unless it’s bloody, confessionary. My sisters used to mummy their tampons in toilet paper then bury them in the garbage next to the toilet. Why bury?

Before I met Kate. Friday nights were two hookah hoses in my mouth. Light’s off. Kitchen table computer pecking. A jam jar full of wine. Then empty. Then full again. Then empty. Full, empty, exhale. A fog of cherry shisha vapor. I’m the same me now but different. Pecking, yes. Sans wine and hookah.

The police man is fat and standing at the crosswalk watching me walk like I'm doing something wrong. Neon vest, sunglasses, underbite. I imagine a bully in kindergarten who guards the tire swing but is too scared to get on it, go round and round. I’m seeing a therapist tomorrow. A follow-up for the visit to Minnesota. I don’t have much to talk about, and the appointment is during the time of Kate’s workout class at Bodyplex, so I told Kate I’d just cancel, and then she showed me both her palms and moved them side to side and said no, no, no, no; she said I like it when you see the therapist, we haven’t fought in three weeks. Keep going, she said.

Four women and two men came to sunrise yoga this morning.

I wonder if Donald Trump has lots of sex. If women are into that. I googled whether most Americans shave their pubic hair or not. The article broke down shaving into three categories: bare, trimmed or landing strip. Asked interviewees whether they shave for their partner’s pleasure or for their own or other. I can't remember the results.

Walking across the crosswalk. A man with an old Buick stares at me. Just like the police officer. Is this the matrix? The oracle says if you see repeating numbers it means your angels are speaking to you. She called them our spirit guides. There’s a Hawaiian lei hanging from the Buick’s rearview mirror. He’s frowning. What’s the message?

I finally made apple pie this morning with organic apples from Walmart. Had to go there because the tire pressure was low. 10 psi when it's supposed to be 32. So soft I nudged it with my toe. It gave like a pillow.

I hadn’t noticed. People say falling in love happens all at once, but falling out happens so gradually you don’t even notice.

Dawn. Dusk. Earth spins.

Like basketball on fingertip. In middle school, I practiced all summer. In the garage shade. Flick it with the free hand. Keep it going. I can’t remember if I practiced with such focus to keep up with the other Rosemount Irish Boys Basketball camp talent, if it was a competitive urge, or if the skill just fascinated me, mesmerized my piano-playing hands.

My watch says 99:99.

I hadn’t noticed. Happened so gradually.

The Walmart mechanic guy wore really nice open-ankle leather shoes. Like half lawyer, half hipster mechanic. He said to buy the car adaptor air pump. I’ve always wanted to be able to fix cars, and to be a medical doctor, and to hip hop dance like they do on Step Up.

I don’t ask myself if I’m a good son. Not with respect to my dead mom. And not with respect to my living dad. I don’t ask myself if I’m a good brother or husband. Maybe I should be more steely-eyed with self-examination. But I do ask myself if I’m a good father. Every day. Every diaper change, I see those blue eyes smiling back at me, and I smile, and say something in baby-voice, and almost immediately a voice inside my head asks: do you mean it, or are you just faking?

As a meta-question, this question has been creeping up on me lately: Do you mean it or are ya just faking?