The metaphor for my entire existence is fresh produce. M., my hero, brought home a box of, like 15, fresh tomatoes from a local farm on Sunday. It was my consolation prize for having slept late and missed the farmer’s market. So, tonight, I dropped them in hot water, peeled the skins and reduced the shit out of them into a fresher than fresh, chunky sauce.

Tomorrow, we shall have pasta.

Adding to my relative joy was cracking the shell-ish skin of some lychees and having them for dessert.

M. is also my hero for calling Nick the insane. He arranged a money-getting, table-recovering rendez vous with the landlord from the abyss of the devil’s playground. Late in the month, we should get some kind of check, and Nicky, holding on to his last shred of kind of sort of imaginarily having control, is adamant we sign the court papers then and there saying we got the money. Me, I’ll be holding off on the signing until the check clears.

My loophole is given M.’s possession of a Y chromosome, Nick will be looking for his sig, as the dominant male, U-RAH. Of course, I was the primary complainant, legal genius, sexist bastard Nick, won’t quite get my John Hancock is needed too.

I must sleep now, because tomorrow I will rise and there will be a fresh peach in my future.

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