I’m sitting in the Aldi parking lot waiting for the baby to wake up. A Coca Cola truck is parked next to me, unloading. In the passenger seat, there’s a pile of stuff from the dumpster: organic bananas and plaintains.
I’m going to fail the 2 1/2 day water fast. I’m going to quit tonight at 6pm and call it a solid 24 hours. My brain is foggy and I’m tired and my legs hurt after walking the dog and baby for 15 minutes and I spent an hour lying in bed trying to get the baby to nap and that’s not my usual go go go style and I’m good with 24 hours.
I’m going to make a burger with an over easy egg and sautéed kale to break the fast. Mmmm damn.
All of our possessions are scattered around the house in these enormous Tupperware bins that cost $7.49 from Walmart. In total we have 16 of them. I reserved the 22-foot Penske truck today.
The papaya wine is in the oven with the light on, fermenting. Air temperature currently 67; I bet the oven is mid 70s at least.
I talked to my sister about how I feel about moving back to Minnesota, and I told her I was optimistic because I think I have gotten better at communication and communication is more likely than not the name of the game. Like you can feel whatever you want, it’s 200% how you communicate that shit.
I’m very close to being done with a print edition of the first 31 FB entries of The Diary. It’s titled: The Alt Dad Diary Vol. 1. // The Dead Don’t Stay Dead. It’s distilled diary. Like a shot of papaya tequila. At least that’s what I think the title should be. Due date is Sunday.