I used to live across from McDonalds with my mom & one of her much older boyfriends (Perry? Jerry? idk). They were always at the “opera,” so I spent a lot of time home alone with my Easy-Bake Oven. For my twelfth birthday, my mom gave me a child-sized mop & bucket, with which I entertained myself endlessly, along with hula-hooping. This intersection of hurt + boredom = ecstatic mopping is more or less the pattern of my life. I’m not sure why I gave up baking, mopping, and hula-hooping for pictures and bad poetry, but I expect most things to return to me when I’m ready.