every morning this week i've somehow or other made a mess of breakfast. spilled to the floor or into my lap or on my shirt.

i can't think straight to save my days.

and asher reminded me of housewife desperation, you know (not that i think of you as a housewife, miss! just, the literary allusion under the surface, maybe it still gets me). baking muffins and feeding your loved ones butter because you're so out of it. i worry. i worry too much.