Still at Days Inn. Peachtree City, Georgia. The city with the most golf carts per capita.

At Kroger, golf cart have designated parking spots. Apparently this is a planned community, inspired by golfers and low carbon emission vehicles. Hass avocados were 2 for $1. Also left with 3 bananas— discounted because they were bruised. And 5 chicken sausages, 1 Roma tomato, and 1 head of garlic.

The bulb is the whole hing. The individual part is the clove. Just looked it up. Keep forgetting. I’ll probably forget again and look it up again. And write about it again. Bulb is the whole. Clove the part.

Yesterday Kate was at the soccer field from 9-5. Doing mock coaching drills in order to get her D license. Me and Ellie were hanging out.

Walked the woods by the hotel. Forgot gloves. So we went back.

Drove around with the heat blasting until lil peanut fell asleep.

During Ellie heat coma, I recorded several Facebook Live videos. Is fiction for writers who are too weak to discuss themselves? What’s the connection between the Columbine killers and everybody else? Lots more too. I admit it feels a little desperate. But I’m also aware that I’m highly insecure about trying new creative endeavors. The voice in my head whispers “stick to what works.” But I don’t want to stick to what works. I want to explore. I want to paint a banana blue and hang it on the wall with a curly cord. Pretend it’s a telephone.

Met Kate at noon for lunch. The peanut didn’t want to eat so Kate pumped and then I went inside the bathroom and rinsed off the suction cups before we left.

In the afternoon, since it was so sunny, the baby and I left the car at the fields and walked around. Some of the men have tremendous guts. They look nine months pregnant. I wanted to ask one of them: twins? That’s another voice in my head.

We walked and walked. Found some trails. Crunchy leaves. Mushrooms growing on branches. Intertwined roots. Baby fell asleep. I walked the same trail three times. When she woke up we sat down in the grass and she put pine needles in her mouth. I gave her pine cone, sharp and prickly. She didn’t mind. When we picked up Kate at 5:30, the baby’s face went from smile to frown because she realized who and what she’d been missing all day. Kate was hobbling from soreness and her eyes were cracked red bloodshot. Her Fitbit said she only got 3.5 hours of sleep last night. We each complained to the front desk. This woman with no smile and a pony tail said sorry there’s nothing we can do. I called the Days Inn customer service number and talked to Steve from Indianapolis. And I wrote his name down on the Days Inn pad of paper next to the phone in the room and I kept repeating his name when he asked me something, or when I answered because I believe that people deeply enjoy hearing the sound of their own name. It seemed to work. He said he’d get back to us with a resolution in 7 days. I said okay Steve thank you so much have a wonderful day.

Also before I forget. I had a dream last night where my dad was hammering a nail into the wall. I don’t know why I dreamt this. No context I can think of. No dad thoughts. No hammer thoughts. Maybe it’s because I’m an inconsistent hammerer. Like maybe the dream is the bubbling up of my insecurity. Seems plausible. Half my nails go in bent after a few strikes.

Anyway, in the dream my dad hits the nail a few time. Sinks in perfectly straight. But then he keeps on hitting. A few more swings. As if more hits are “just for good measure.” We’re in a living room or family room or kitchen or something. Each additional time he strikes the nail, the paint and drywall around the nail crack. Each additional strike, the cracked area expands outward. After five or six strikes, the entire wall looks spiderwebbed. A moment later, like an avalanche, the drywall falls to the floor in hundreds of pieces. What’s left is the perfectly straight nail in a stud.

To me, the curious part was how and why I never said anything. I never said Dad! You’re going to ruin the wall. Maybe this is because I’m aware of how little I know about construction and home maintenance. Or maybe this is because I secretly enjoy watching someone fuck up royally.


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P.P.S. Revised essay coming soon, on the topic of THE MALE MAMMALIAN BRAIN, SEXUAL PSYCHOLOGY, AND SSSSHHHHH TABOO. All confessional.