Current

The lady must have a bird feeding route. I saw her twice: once at the beach, another time beneath an overpass. At first, I thought she was crazy, but then Jackson told me about the man who drove up next to her—how he parked the car and waited for her as she finished throwing the last crumbs.

I wrote my first poem in months. It's called "We Should Be Together" and it's romantic.

Our heat didn't work for a day and a half; I started muttering in Polish whenever my dog annoyed me. My roommates laughed.

I hate my ego and think about it ruthlessly. My sister tells me I have a propensity to find The Negative. Talk about self-discovery.

As a child I felt special, like I understood something nameless, which most others couldn't. I took an IQ test on the toilet and scored one point above average. I win.