Here, home, headache. I'm doing nice things like unloading the dishwasher and I hate to say I can't take you and your simpleton nature at the moment. Let me be. You would think I would have learned about the word 'you.' Plural, vague, general, yet so specific and so willing to bend and fit into my sentences and hurt someone. Somehow it's Wednesday and I find myself here, sitting here wondering what would happen if I threw a plate on the kitchen floor. Would it shatter? I dropped a bowl once and it splintered into a thousand pieces. I was barefoot and it was early and I was so tired, so tired, so numb with sleep. I didn't curse, I didn't yell, I just sat there and stared at the slivers underneath me. They still held the curve of the side of the bowl and I knew, if I really wanted to, I could take them all and put them back together and proceed with eating my cereal. A dishwasher is a wonderful invention, saving me hours and money and tears. But it's made me so calloused and so uncaring that I could throw every piece of ceramic to the floor and not care. And I'd really rather sit here and type than go on stacking plates and coffee cups, sorting silverware. It's got to be done because somehow it's almost eight on Wednesday. Two more days to go until I have to find a new day to look forward to. But I will, I will, I always do.