Salad tonight. These days, ‘Saturday’ translates into ‘work’. I’m raking rubbish down a hill, methodically, concentrated. I find two dollars. Night cleaning is basically my dream job, if I was sleeping all day tomorrow. But I’m not. I’ve become a morning person, against my own will.
At this point I can’t really be held responsible for anything I say or do; I may as well be drunk.
Wednesday morning. Opportunity knocks, and I am awake to answer the door. I scrub animal fat in someone else’s kitchen (and by scrub I mean, blast with high pressure from a distance). Flecks of animal protein splatter my skin. I am offered tea, coffee, juice, repeatedly. The stainless steel room is filled with lilting accents. Peppermint tea deeply sweetened by honey. Nothing like inexplicable kindness to bring out unworthiness issues.
Friday lunch. The man holding the PowerPoint laser is nice. I like him. I just wish he wasn’t talking about convenience food. Whatthefuck business do I have serving microwave reheatable protein? None.
Anything could happen yeah, but nothing ever does. Another week has gone by, with my barely writing. Arms straining through the heaviness, descended because I keep forgetting what I am for. Slowly awakening back to myself, opening my grease splattered eyes to remember: I don’t have time for this. I make an amazing dish pig, but I am not long for this world.