Top 25 Things to Do Instead of Writing

1. Cut off my split ends with cuticle scissors.

2. Browse through books written by better writers than me.

3. Fantasize about Morrissey serenading me from six stories down as I stand on the balcony.

4. Fantasize he's not singing "You're the One for Me Fatty", even though I'm doing a lot of late night binge eating.

5. Late night binge eating.

6. Light entire packs of cigarettes on fire, while unfortunately inhaling the smoke.

7. Put on lipstick and admire my reflection in my computer screen.

8. Download interviews from the Paris Review website before they take them down just to make you buy the back issue.

9. Look for random weird things on ebay.

10. Randomly get up and drop my ghetto booty.

11. Write love notes to my boyfriend I don't give him.

12. Look at style.com.

13. Criticize myself after looking at style.com because I can't fit into the clothes I like.

14. Replan my existing wardrobe.

15. Think of all the cool things I'd make if I had a glue gun.

16. Plan vacations

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Tenderize the Night

She is sleeping on a bed as soft as an overcooked steak. The lumpy mashed potato pillows and the afghan with its unraveling bit of string bean yarn frame her body, as still and old as a two day old roll.

But her dreams are sweet. The dull flat, with its dirty tile floor and weathered facade are replaced with walls made of graham crackers. The lifeless posters and cracked plaster are in this sugar spun temperaneous world smell of peppermint and the jewel tone gum drops twinkle. The dining table is bare of good china or her grandmother's heirloom silver. She takes a bite. It's made of chocolate and its joint meet one another in nougat.

She slumbers on. The maid sleeps transformed. The sun bleached uniform is pink and the once sagging skirt twirls in mid-air, dancing with the silk ballet slippers.

In this dream she dresses; not with haste and reluctance, but with expectation. When she looks in the mirror there is a smile there, as if it had been waiting for her face to simply show up and complete the happy reflection.

There is a hint of doom. Behind her she seems the glare of the evil witch's red eyes. Next, she hears the horrible cackle of the witch's laugh. She flees. She tries to fend off the monsters with her licorice whip.

A white hand lashes out from under the overboiled green beans, slapping the top of the alarm clock like a mosquito.

She crawls down the stairs that groan profanities at her, and places her coffee mug on the well worn table. By the time she adds the sugar, the sweetness of her other life is already forgotten.

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